Identity Crisis
by themodernteen
Summary: John returns home to the horrible news that Sherlock was kidnapped by a group of radicals. He enlists the help of Mycroft, Andersen, Donovan, and Lestrade to follow a series of clues an injured Sherlock left in order for them to find him. But the radicals mistake Sherlock for Mycroft and vice versa. The Holmes Brothers must play the other to stop an attack before it's too late!
1. Chapter 1

**Here's another Sherlock story I wrote! Go check out my other two if you haven't; they're called "The Computer Criminal" and "The Devil's Assassin"! I hope you guys enjoy :) I don't own any Sherlock material or characters.**

"Natalie, was it?" John smirked, looking at the absolutely _gorgeous_ woman sitting across from him. Her cologne wafted across the dinner table, chestnut hair falling across her shoulders in perfect waves, pink lipstick sparkling, green eyes dazzling, and smile as infectious as Sherlock's bacteria experiments.

"Yes," she laughed, it sounded like angelic chimes, "John Watson." She reached across the table and gripped his hand, her soft fingers tracing his worn knuckles. If only she knew what these hands had done in the past.

Lestrade had been trying to encourage John on dates with several female friends. He went on one when he first asked to oblige the Detective Inspector, but it never ended well. Since then, he'd been trying to avoid any other confrontations, but it was a free Saturday night and he was feeling rather lonely.

Natalie was miraculous, the epitome of perfection as he deeply enjoyed her company. He wanted to invite her to a bar afterward, possibly grab late night drinks, talk the night away, and finish off the evening at her flat. Heaven forbid he ever took a woman to 221B. Last time that happened, Sherlock was candid in his current experimentation of the human eyelid. John's date left rather quickly after that, citing her reason as feeling unwell. Watson couldn't blame her.

"The place looks like it's shutting down for the night," John looked around as waiters folded the tablecloths and collected the last bits of silverware. Customers straggled to the doorway, stumbling out for the night.

"Where to next?" Natalie's eyes glimmered.

"I was thinking maybe a nice bar, grab a few drinks?"

"That sounds delightful."

John felt relief blossom inside his chest. The night was going great, and he'd be sure to repay Lestrade in full given the next opportunity.

Just then, his mobile buzzed. _Not now._ John knew _exactly_ who it was.

Natalie didn't seem to notice.

"Any ideas?" she cocked her head.

"There's a good pub down the street, we can start there and-"

His mobile buzzed again.

"Was that mine?" Natalie furrowed her brows and pulled her hand away as she grabbed her purse. She rummaged through the pouch, searching for her mobile.

"No," John exhaled with irritation. He slipped it out of his back pocket and clicked the "ignore" button.

"Anything urgent?" Natalie asked.

"Not at all."

His mobile buzzed twice.

John growled as Natalie looked up at him, her gaze hardened a little.

"I'm sorry, my partner, he's very persistent-"

"Partner?"

Another buzz.

Natalie exhaled loudly.

"Not _partner_ partner, but my colleague."

"Does your 'colleague' know you're out for the night?"

"Yes, he does," John angrily replied. Jamming his thumbs down onto the keys hard, venting his annoyance. The second he sent his message, four more buzzes vibrated from his mobile.

"Do you need a moment?"

"No, no," John shook his head, "I apologize. He's a detective."

"A detective?" Natalie narrowed her brow, "But I thought you were a doctor?"

"I am a doctor."

Another buzz.

"But if he's your colleague, what is a detective doing with an army doctor?" Natalie crossed her arms.

Two more buzzes.

"We work together. He solves cases, I tag along on them."

"So, you lied to me?"

"Wha-no! No, I didn't lie, I really am a doctor."

One more buzz.

" _And_ a detective? Well, he seems very demanding. What, is he Sherlock Holmes?"

"Actually," John opened his mouth, trying not to sound like a complete idiot, "Yes, he is."

"Okay," Natalie dropped her purse on the table as she pushed herself out of her chair, "that's it, we're done."

Two more buzzes.

"Natalie, wait! Where are you going?"

"Look, John, I've been rejected on dates before, but never have I _ever_ been so humiliated. Sherlock Holmes? Do you think so low of me? That I'm an idiot?"

"Not at all! Natalie, seriously, it's Sherlock Holmes!"

"Oh, really? You have his contact?"

"Sure!" John held up the phone for her to see, but she looked at him with even more anger in her eyes. He didn't even look at the screen when it rang, instantly knowing it was his flatmate. John turned the screen to face him and he cursed to himself. It was an unknown number, a random combination of 10 digits that could belong to anyone or anywhere in London. Sherlock did that sometimes, used unknown numbers to keep from anyone catching onto his investigation.

"No, seriously, I have his number. It's in here somewhere," he clicked the buttons on his phone, but Natalie was already walking.

Another buzz.

"Yeah, sure," she pulled her jacket onto her shoulders, "Have a good night, John. I'm sure you and Mr. Holmes will be very happy together."

Her heels clacked off into the night as Natalie disappeared out the door. John was left, open mouthed, watching her go off. _What the hell just happened?_

Buzz.

"What?!" John flipped open his mobile so hard, he thought it'd break.

"Emergency. Back to Baker Street, quick as you can. Call when you're there."

The line went dead.

"Really?" John held the mobile in front of him as he angrily yelled at it, "Was that it? You bastard!"

He hit his knee against the table leg as he tried to stand up. Pain flared in his muscle as he cursed to himself. John stormed out of the restaurant, hailed a cab back home, and grumbled as yet another night was ruined.

He slammed the front door closed, retreating from the London cold and into the safety of his flat. Mrs. Hudson's flat 221A was quiet, the lights dim. She was probably asleep, it was nearing midnight. John shed his coat on the hook and stomped up stairs.

"I'm here!" he called, his tone tinged with irritation, "You said it was an emergency, it better bloody well be one!"

He climbed the rest of the stairs and trudged through the doorway. The flat lights were on and bright, Sherlock probably on a crazy experimentation spree with some new chemical combination.

"Well?" John walked in, but stopped abruptly. The flat was full, crowded with familiar faces. Standing by the doorway was Mrs. Hudson, her hand placed over her lips and brows creased in worry. Greg Lestrade mingled by the kitchen entrance, a full glass of drink in his hand. Andersen was sitting on the couch, head resting back against the cushion as he tapped his fingers against his leg. Donovan leaned on the fireplace, holding Sherlock's skull in her hands as she felt the ceramic cranium. Mycroft was sitting in Sherlock's deep, square framed chair. His cane rested against the arm and his well-manicured suit and shoes hugged his figure. His legs were crossed, his back against the armchair, and fingers steepled under his chin, just like Sherlock. Holmes was nowhere to be found. The atmosphere was grim, and nobody would look him directly in the eye.

"What's this?" he looked at each individual, his heart rate instinctively rising.

"John-" Mrs. Hudson began, her voice wavering.

"Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft interfered, without looking at her, "please."

"Someone speak up, tell me what's going on. Where's Sherlock?"

"John, where were you?" Lestrade took a sip of his drink.

"I was out, now what are you lot doing here?"

Nobody would talk.

His temper flared,"It's bloody nearing midnight, there are five people in my flat, a gorgeous woman will never want to see me in her life again, and Sherlock's not here. Now someone tell me what happened!"

"Take a seat," Mycroft motioned to the empty chair facing him with his cane.

Watson obeyed.

"John," Mycroft shifted slightly, "my position in the British government, as you know, is one of advantageous prestige."

"Okay?" he huffed, "And?"

"It's also one of burdensome detriment. I have enemies, John, rather nasty ones at that. Decisions are made, ones that don't suit others. It takes careful consideration in the midst of controversy to decide the most beneficial course of action for our nation."

"Where are you getting at?"

"Oh, come on already!" Andersen leaned forward, "Just tell him!"

"John, this may not be easy to hear-" Lestrade began.

"Sherlock has been taken," Mycroft sighed deeply, almost as if it revealed some emotion. Almost, "and we don't know where he is."

 **Chapter 2 coming soon! Leave me a favorite/follow/review! Stay tuned!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's Chapter 2! Sherlock's scenes will be in italics to separate the perspectives between him and John. Hope you guys enjoy! Leave me a fav/follow/review!**

 _"_ _What were you saying?" Sherlock felt himself exit his Mind Palace and he turned to John's chair, vaguely remembering the army doctor asked him a question. The armchair was empty, so was the flat. Sherlock glanced at the clock. 4:12 PM. Last time he looked at the time, it was a quarter past twelve. John likely left him hours ago, knowing when Sherlock entered his Mind Palace, his trance was unbreakable._

 _"_ _Mrs. Hudson!" he called, lifting himself out of his armchair gracefully. No answer from below. Where was everybody? He went grumbling into the kitchen, having to make himself his own cup of tea. It was exhausting and a waste of his brain capacity. When he poured his frothing drink into his teacup, Sherlock descended into the chair by his desk. He pressed a palm against John's idle laptop cover. It was warm, he was typing a lot. That meant John was typing about him._

 _On the coffee table, Sherlock's mobile buzzed persistently. He took a sip of his tea, let the vibrations echo throughout the flat before walking over and checking the caller ID._

 ** _MYCROFT HOLMES_**

 _Oh, God, no._

 _Sherlock threw the mobile back down onto the coffee table and walked back to his chair. He lifted the ceramic teacup edge to his lips and carefully sipped. The vibrations slowly died, until his voicemail tone beeped. Then his text tone, four times. After he finished his tea, Sherlock stood up and hovered over his mobile._

 ** _MEET AT CAFE. 30._**

 ** _EXCLUDE JOHN._**

 _He looked down at his watch, about 15 minutes left. Sherlock threw his cup into the sink, hopped down the stairs, and slung his coat across his long shoulders. Mycroft and Sherlock met at a cafe just south of Baker Street. Whenever Mycroft mentioned it, he had a new case for him, always. He arrived right on time and Sherlock sat at their usual table, ordering nothing. A black Mercedes pulled up to the curb, a cane peaking out from the half open door as polished shoes hit the concrete. Mycroft emerged from the vehicle and walked towards Sherlock, seating himself across from him. The Mercedes pulled away from the curb but would linger nearby for its cargo._

 _"_ _Mycroft."_

 _"_ _Sherlock."_

 _"_ _What do you have for me?"_

 _Silently, Mycroft produced a manila file folder from his lap and slid it over to Sherlock with five, long fingers. Sherlock opened the file, his eyes scanning through the information rapidly. It was like his pupils were hungry, just lapping up the data to quench his starving intellect._

 _"_ _Recently, Parliament came to the decision to grant further jurisdiction of Jerusalem to the Israeli government, therefore antagonizing the antipathy of a radical group of Palestinian extremists."_

 _"_ _Boring."_

 _Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Focus, Sherlock. This development makes Britain a potential target of Palestinian fanatics, an action that can be categorized under terrorism. I've kept our national police alert and we believe an offense has been formulated by two known potential terrorists: Abbad and Farooq Bahar."_

 _"_ _You want me to discover their plans and put a stop to them," Sherlock closed the file._

 _"_ _Farooq appeared on video surveillance near Buckingham Palace a few days ago. This suspicion has put a lot of unnecessary strain on our nation's capital. The matter must be handled carefully, Sherlock, none of your wild tactics."_

 _"_ _I get it, Mycroft," Sherlock rose from his chair, hands in pockets, as he looked down at his older brother, "the terrorist got too close to the Queen, she's getting flustered."_

 _"_ _Don't you disrespect her Majesty," Mycroft hissed._

 _"_ _Please," Sherlock scoffed, "send me all of your information on the Bahar brothers within the hour."_

 _Without another word, Sherlock readjusted his coat collar and took off down the street, back to his flat. He didn't hear the camera shutter click behind him._

 _By the time he returned to 221B, there were two crates of documents sitting on his living room floor, courtesy of Mycroft. He cracked his knuckles and dove in. The case was not significantly challenging or interesting for that matter. A terrorist organization was targeting Britain again. What was new? There were millions of people in hundreds of countries who were probably thinking the same exact thing, what made the Bahar Brothers different? The driving reason he took on the case was because of his perpetual boredom. His last case was two days ago and he needed something, even something this trivial, to occupy his mind._

 _It took Sherlock nearly three hours to decipher the entirety of the crates and sort out the documents. Abbad and Farooq Bahar were raised in the town of Jericho, a desolate desert with only rolling sandy hills as far as the eye could see. Their father was an anti-zionist, an anti-semitic, and anti-Israeli member of the Palestinian "Hamas" terrorist organization. He was killed in action during a raid, but his sons took up his legacy. Their mother was an unknown, a victim of Bahar Sr. who raped and killed his wife after she gave birth to his sons. What a role model._

 _From what he could understand, Farooq Bahar was most likely lingering around the Palace just to cause unnecessary suspicion, to divert the attention of the police away from much bigger, bolder plans. Abbad was working behind the scenes, probably creating shrapnel bombs or chemical weapons to devastate a city. Their whereabouts were still unknown to him, but Sherlock sent a message to his homeless network and he already picked up a few locations to investigate. He walked into his bedroom, opened his closet, and pulled out a ratty sweater with torn, loose fitting pants. It hung on his tall form as he stepped into the bathroom. With his long fingers, he ruffled his carefully curled hair and stomped into John's bedroom. A small plant sat by the army doctor's window and Sherlock inserted two fingers into the soil, smearing some of the residue on his face. He looked in the mirror and found his disguise suitable._

 _"_ _Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called as he flew down the stairs, "I'm heading out! I'd like some tea when I get back, thank you!"_

 _"_ _Sherlock?" her frail voice sounded from behind her door, "Where are you going?"_

 _He didn't answer and exited the building._

"What do you mean you don't know where he is?" John felt his voice rise, "How could you not know where he is?"

"Relax, John, my team is handling it," Mycroft dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"Your team, really? Tell me, how involved are they in the investigation? Do they have a single clue of where he might be?"

"He's my brother, Dr. Watson," Mycroft's gaze hardened, "the matter has been labeled under urgent."

"So you don't know," John spat.

"No," Lestrade sighed deeply, "I got the call from Mycroft and raced over."

"Don't you have surveillance?" John looked back to the elder Holmes brother, "I thought you were tracking him."

"Sherlock disabled the ones inside the flat, but the ones at the cafe just show Sherlock exiting the building in tattered clothing and he hasn't returned."

"Well-well, maybe he'll be back for the night, maybe he-"

"There's footage near the park of a man that fits Sherlock's description entering one of the local, abandoned buildings," Donovan kept her arms crossed, "Police searched the place, but found nothing, just a crack den."

"That could be anybody," but even as John said it, his heart sunk with worry.

"Face the truth, Watson," Andersen shook his head, "Sherlock Holmes has officially been filed as a missing person."

"No, no," John threw his bag on the desk and rummaged through it, "this can't be it."

"What are you doing?" Mycroft tried looking over John's shoulder.

He pulled out his mobile and handed it to Andersen, "Can you trace his number?"

"We've tried, the phone's been disabled."

"Sherlock contacted me not too long ago."

"What?" Lestrade stepped forward, "When? What did he say?"

"I was out, and he kept calling," John felt his stomach surge with guilt, "I kept ignoring."

"You kept ignoring?" John could feel the malice in Mycroft's words.

"Finally, I answered it and he said 'Emergency, back to Baker Street quick as you can. Call me when you're there.'"

"Those were his precise words?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, those exactly."

"But he wasn't even at Baker Street!" Andersen scoffed.

"What time?" Lestrade turned to John.

"Maybe an hour ago."

"From his number?"

"No, a different one, but Sherlock regularly calls me from booths or payphones around town if he doesn't bring his mobile to divert attention from anyone who might be catching onto his investigation"

"Give me the number," Donovan stepped forward and took the mobile from John, "Andersen, run a trace. At least we can start there."

Andersen took the phone from John and the search began.

 _Sherlock hunkered down a little, trying to walk with a slight limp to sell his disguise. Meanwhile, his icy blue eyes darted across his surroundings, observing everything. The man sitting at the bench just finished a heavy break up judging by his hair gel, the woman walking her dog is having legal issues, the young child holding his mother's hand just recovered from a cold. His eyes noticed everything and his brain processed it all, like a well-oiled machine._

 _He looked at his mobile screen discreetly, noticing the list of addresses members of his homeless network sent to him. He was just a few blocks away from his next one. The one he just exited from was a crack den filled with women and men with glassy filled gazes and limps forms. He had a feeling about the next building, it was out of sight, abandoned, yet still functional. The detective did some research and learned it used to be the office of a tech company, so it had working internet connections to reach the radicals at home and to hack into London based security systems._

 _The crumbling, destroyed cement archway leading into the building was off putting, but also heightened his suspicions. He would pretend he was a rambling, lost crack addict looking for his next pick-up. It was not uncommon around these parts, the radicals probably waved off multiple every day. Sherlock readjusted his torn hood over his head and stumbled in._

 _He rambled to himself, trying to make his voice sound gruff and raspy. He spoke complete nonsense, but he knew he was in the right place when a man emerged from behind a post, a machine gun in hand._

 _The man looked at Sherlock and yelled something crude in his direction, probably something along the lines of: "Get out of here, fool!"_

 _Sherlock pretended not to notice, still loudly clamoring and approaching. With his shaky hands he pulled out a rolled up wad of money, trying to amp up his disguise._

 _The man yelled at Sherlock once more, pointing the barrel of his machine gun in his direction. He pushed forward._

 _Finally the guy came stomping down the crumbling stairs and pushed a hand out, stopping Sherlock in his tracks. He still spoke in a foreign language, Arabic, and held the metal barrel of the gun right at his waist._

 _"_ _I'm just looking for a little hit, mate," he spattered in a breaking voice._

 _The man eyed him up and down, he slung his machine gun over his shoulder and patted him down. The ragged clothing was a great disguise and he probably smelled like garbage after exiting that crack den from before. He looked convincing, but needed solid evidence this location was connected with the "Hamas" organization._

 _As the man was patting him down, Sherlock noticed the a black inkling circling around his wrist. A tattoo. Most organizations required some marking to identify one of their own, and this could be it. Sherlock suddenly dropped his wad of rolled up bills on the floor. The man pulled back, instinctively reaching for his weapon until his eyes popped when he noticed the sizable amount of money that just spilled at his feet._

 _"_ _S-sorry, mate. Sticky fingers," Sherlock coughed._

 _He bent down to pick it up, but the man plugged the barrel of his gun right under his chin. Sherlock put his shaking hands up, trying to look surprised and afraid. The man smirked with a crusty mustache and sweaty unibrow before he bent down and snatched the money, stuffing it in his coat._

 _"_ _Hey, mate, that's mine!" he tried arguing, but the barrel dug deeper into his esophagus, cutting off his words._

 _"_ _Mine now," the man smiled with crooked teeth and a thick accent before he pushed Sherlock away with the barrel of the gun. He fell to the floor, trying to look like he stumbled and tripped over his feet. The man cackled and kicked Sherlock's back, pushing him further down the path. That aggravated him slightly, but he didn't let it register on a personal level._

 _Sherlock smiled to himself, satisfied with what he clarified. When the man bent down to reach for the roll, his sleeve rode up slightly and revealed a faded black tattoo with the word_ ** _HAMAS_** _inked into his skin. He began to stride off, feeling pleased when a heavy voice rang out across the clearing, speaking in harsh Arabic. Sherlock turned around and so did the man with the machine gun. Another man was standing in the doorway, but the way he spoke and carried himself was as if he held a higher rank._

 _The man looked down at a photograph in his hand, back at Sherlock, then he extended a long, pointy finger in his direction. Not good. The man in the doorway yelled at the man with the machine gun as he barreled towards Sherlock, gun raised and shouting at him to stop._

 _What happened? Why were they chasing him? Did they identify him? Absolutely not, the disguise was one of his bests. Two more jumped down from the doorway, chasing after him as they joined the man with the machine gun. He was going to get captured, it was inevitable. Sherlock was in tattered clothing and worn shoes, and three agile, weaponized men were closing in. He needed to find a way to get ahold of John somehow._

 _Sherlock was still a few yards away from the gate, but he couldn't hit the street. If he did, there was sure to be commotion and he'd lose the Hamas hideout if police we're involved. Sherlock fished his mobile out of his pocket and unlatched the tracker Lestrade put into the device. He crushed it in his fingertips. Sherlock saw a nearby puddle from the recent rain; as he passed, he dropped his mobile into the puddle the screen going black. If Andersen tried to trace it back, the results would be inconclusive, but it was worth it if he wanted to preserve the sensitive information of the radicals' hideout._

 _The men were just a few feet behind him, their guns ready but unfired as to not attract attention from locals. He slowed his pace, knowing he'd just tired himself out if he kept circling the clearing. The first man, a big, burly animal, tackled him to the floor like a tank. He went crashing into the muddy grass, the soil staining his clothes as his spine connected with the dirt painfully. The breath was knocked out of his lungs as the man's rancid breath puffed into his face. He was yelling to his cohorts in Arabic as Sherlock's head spun, the world upside down from his position._

 _His phone was gone, no way for the Hamas to trace information back to John and his friends, yet no way for John and his friends to find out about the Hamas den to jeopardize the entire mission._

 _A shadow clouded over him and he tried to look up, but something heavy and hard hit him in the back of the head and his world went black._

 **Chapter 3 coming soon!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3! Hope you guys enjoy! Leave me a fav/follow/review and tell me what you think!**

"Anything?" John asked as he looked over Andersen's shoulder. The forensic analyst was sitting at the desk at 221B typing codes and commands into his laptop.

"Not yet," Andersen puffed out a breath. John asked that question at least five times in the last two minutes. Sherlock was not _that_ amazing of a bloke, why all the commotion?

"I'm scanning the CCTV footage of the building Sherlock entered. Looks like we've got an address, I'll head over," Donovan grabbed her coat from the chair.

"I'm coming with you," John headed for the door.

"Stay here, John," Greg pursed his lips, "I'll go with Sergeant Donovan. This might be too personal for you."

"Too personal?" John narrowed his eyes, "Lestrade, you know _exactly_ how personal this is to me. Sherlock is missing, that's a fact, but you do not have the right to hold it against me as an accusation. I'm a doctor, if he needs medical attention I'll be there."

"Let him go," Mycroft spoke for the first time in a while, "he's right. If my brother is injured, Dr. Watson would be an asset."

"Fine," Greg puffed out a breath, "the squad car is waiting right at the curb down below."

"No," Mycroft tapped his cane, "my Mercedes is there now. Your vehicle has been transported down the street."

"Are you kidding me?" Donovan looked at Mycroft in offended shock then back at Lestrade, "He's worse than The Freak."

"Come on," Greg brushed off the comment as he paraded John and Donovan down the stairs. That left Mycroft and Andersen in the flat alone, but Mrs. Hudson stomped up the stairs holding a platter with freshly boiled tea.

"Thank you," Andersen took the cup from her, nodding.

"Just find Sherlock," she leaned in and whispered to him, "just find him."

"Y-yes, of course," Andersen narrowed his eyes in confusion as she turned and handed a cup to Holmes' brother. Seriously, when did so many people _care_ about Sherlock Holmes?

Mrs. Hudson retreated down the stairs after she carefully deposited the tea to the men. Mycroft took a sip and felt the rejuvenating liquid stream down his throat delightfully. He placed the cup back onto its saucer and leaned back.

"My brother doesn't like you," Mycroft remarked, noticing a small fiber sticking out of the stitching on the hem of his coat.

"I don't like your brother," Andersen didn't turn around, his fingers still rapidly typing.

"My brother doesn't like a lot of people."

"Neither do I."

"But he _especially_ despises you."

"Does that make me special?"

"Watch your tone, _boy_ , you don't know who you're talking to."

"No, I don't. In fact, I've never even heard of you. When did you become so keen on your brother's well being? Never. That's because you Holmes' are all the same. Sherlock has something you need and the only reason you want to find him is because of some lousy case you probably gave him that he might possibly take to the grave. So don't sit around pretending you're here for the right reasons when you're not."

"I'm amused by the fact you surround yourself in an illusion of intellect and authority when you really don't possess any of those traits, not a semblance of them. Sherlock's well being is my concern and your harsh allegations that I am only present because of his deductive skills are childish. Everything Sherlock has, his cunning explanations and clever deductions all derive from one original source: me. So, if you think the only use I have for my brother is in accordance with my career then you are mistaken."

"Then if you're so smart with your massive intellect and what not, why don't you solve the damn case yourself?"

"I don't have the availability for the case. You wouldn't understand the decisions I must make. Adult matters, information that can get you killed if misused."

"So there is a case," Andersen smiled, "thank you for clarifying."

"Well, of course, there's a case!" Mycroft scoffed, "Do you think you're clever? That I mistakenly admitted to you some confidential secret? Perhaps you think some of Sherlock has rubbed off on you so you can impress Sergeant Donovan? Wrong, you are insignificant," he stressed each syllable, "You are a forensic analyst, making a minuscule impact in the greater cycle of our nation. Nothing more."

"You-you don't know anything about me," Andersen sniffed, but stuttering slightly.

Mycroft smiled, "Is that so? How do I know you're in your tenth year of service at Scotland Yard, or that you grovel to your superiors for overtime hours to pay your mother's hospital bills for chemotherapy, or that you attend a pottery class every Tuesday at 6 o'clock, or that you and Sergeant Donovan had your last outing over a week ago and she hasn't discussed your date or the possibility of another so now you have to try and impress here so that she may reconsider?"

Andersen's jaw dropped. He stood up from the chair and faced the older Holmes who smiled at him smugly.

"How did? How-"

"Observation."

"But, but, I didn't tell anyone about-not even Sherlock!"

"Do you think that's supposed to stop me?"

Andersen just blinked, looking at Mycroft like he was a demon.

"Now back to work," Mycroft nodded at the laptop as he took another sip of tea, "locate the mobile."

 _Sherlock felt his hair tickle his eyelids. His neck was limp, black hair falling in his face. He lifted his head and his sensitive eyes turned away from the harsh light blasting into his pupils. His wrists were tied with coarse, thick rope along with his ankles. Pain flared in the back of his skull, dried liquid sticking against the nape of his neck. Blood. His blue eyes scanned his surroundings: a dark, dingy room with a rusted faucet, boarded up windows, and a tiled floor with a drain. Judging by the condition of the dilapidated building, it was pre-1950s, remodeled foundations to accommodate future business. Now, the building was abandoned and occupied with the Hamas organization. He was in a bomb shelter implemented during World War 2. A camera in the corner of the room watched him with its black eye._

 _The sound of a rusted latch echoed through the shelter and Sherlock waited for his captors to enter the room. They filed in, three of them. One was the man in the doorway, the other was the man with the machine gun, and the last was the burly character who tackled him to the floor. Each of them looked at him with grimy, sweaty complexions, crusty mustaches, hungry eyes, and crooked yellow teeth. It was disgusting._

 _Sherlock just looked at them with his harshest gaze, not wanting to make the first move. The man with the machine gun prodded the man in the doorway, urging him to speak. The man in the doorway bit back a reply in Arabic. He stepped forward and began in broken English._

 _"_ _Why you here?"_

 _Sherlock didn't say a word._

 _His cohorts behind him prompted him to continue._

 _"_ _You no want drugs. Why you here?"_

 _He continued to stay quiet._

 _This time, the man wasn't so patient. He reached out and slapped Sherlock across the face. He wasn't expecting that. His cheek stung but his lips stretched into a smile. A quiet laugh echoed throughout the shelter._

 _"_ _What funny?" the man growled, his patience wearing thin, "Not funny!"_

 _He pulled his gun from his belt and pressed the barrel into Sherlock's temple. He continued his laughter, knowing it irritated his captors but also kept him alive. Curiosity killed the cat, remember? These men would want to know why he was laughing, want to keep him alive because of a possible secret they might not know._

 _"_ _Tell me why you laugh!"_

 _Sherlock shook his head, still laughing darkly._

 _The man pulled back his hand, and with the butt of his gun, smashed the hard metal across his cheek. His head flung sideways and his laughing was briefly cut off. Sherlock spat in the corner, dark, red blood predominantly mingled with his saliva. A sizable bruise would form on his cheek soon, but he needed a way to contact John soon. The men waved Sherlock's attacker off and he shot a dirty glare at the detective before the rusted door shut close._

"This is the address?" John looked through the bright daylight at the shambles of a building as he closed the squad car door.

"Yeah, this is the address," Donovan re-checked her mobile to confirm, "Sherlock was caught on that camera," she pointed to a light post with a small white security camera resting on the head.

"Let's head in," Lestrade pulled his badge and gun from his belt. The doorway was a teetering, wooden plank of wood on one hinge. Lestrade approached and kicked the door with a boot.

"Anyone in there? Police!"

He barged in, Sergeant Donovan behind him, and Watson bringing up the rear.

Inside was dark, except for filters of light hitting the cement floor through cracks in the wooden planks boarding up the windows. Insider were grey heaps lining the floors and walls, but as John approached he realized those heaps were bodies.

"Jesus," he whispered under his breath as he rushed over to the nearest figure and knelt by it, "Lestrade, these are bodies."

"Alive?" Donovan asked, putting her gun down.

Watson pushed away the matted hair and grime slathered against the female face. The woman was listless, her form limp, but she had a pulse. Her eyes were glazed over, a hypodermic needle rested by the crook of her elbow. John rolled up her sleeve and saw multiple black entry marks in her skin.

"No," John set her arm down, "no, she's just high, they all probably are. I think this is a crack den."

Donovan nudged the figure across the room, but the man didn't react. His body moved like a sack of potatoes.

"Look around," Lestrade gestured to Donovan, "check if Sherlock is here."

Donovan nodded and started to walk to another gray heap.

"He's clean," John growled, still kneeling by the girl, "you won't find him here."

"He was a junkie," Sally inputted, "once a junkie, always a junkie."

"Sherlock is not here, I guarantee it!" John rebuked.

"We're just exploring all options," Lestrade calmed his friend, "Sergeant Donovan, keep checking. John, stay close in case we find him."

They searched the whole warehouse, but nothing. No Sherlock. He wasn't a gray form rotting away on the floor, mind lost to the unknown of drugs and inner demons. John was partially relieved yet partially upset about this finding. At least if he found Sherlock here, he could chew him out knowing he was alive, but now their only lead was a bust. His stomach twisted in knots. He needed to find Sherlock before anything happened to him, and guilt ached till his bones at the thought of the calls he ignored when Sherlock was trying to reach him.

"I called this in," Lestrade approached Donovan and Watson, "we've got medics and police on their way."

"No Sherlock," John swallowed, "now what? We don't have any leads."

"I'm sure Andersen has found something on your mobile," Donovan suggested.

"I'll go to the hospital once these blokes have their stomachs pumped and their veins full of medicine instead of cocaine. I can question them, see if they saw someone fitting Sherlock's description passing through."

"No, no, it'll be too late by then," John shivered as he shook his head, "Only 10% of missing persons cases are solved after 24 hours, all right? We can't delay, there has to be something!"

"What do you propose?" Donovan tapped her foot against the floor, hands on her hips.

"Let's start from the top, think like Sherlock. Lestrade, how did you hear about the situation?"

"Mycroft called the Yard."

"You got word of mouth by Lestrade, right, Donovan?"

She nodded, eyes narrowed wondering where he was going with this.

"Well, how did Mycroft know about this?"

"He has surveillance," said Lestrade, "you said it yourself."

"No, Mycroft only does weekly check-ins, unless something urgent is going on. When Sherlock was crashing before the Culverton Smith case, Mycroft had round the clock surveillance. He'd only notice if Sherlock was missing if he was frequently checking in again. That means Mycroft gave Sherlock a case."

"A case? I thought he just finished one."

"What? The one he solved two days ago? That's an eternity for Sherlock, he had to have met with him and gave him a new case."

"Then let's go question Mycroft Holmes," Donovan headed to the squad car as sirens rang in the distance.

"Mycroft!" John shouted as he ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The army doctor angrily stormed into the flat. The elder Holmes was still sitting in the armchair, his fingers texting away on his mobile.

"Dr. Watson?" Mycroft looked at him with terse brows, wondering where his curt tone came from.

"A word," he barked, "if you don't mind."

"Andersen, Donovan, with me," Lestrade motioned for his two members to follow him out the door. Donovan walked out, dismissing the confrontation entirely, but Andersen seemed interested. He begrudgingly exited the flat. Mrs. Hudson was walking towards the door, but John put up an arm.

"No, Mrs. Hudson, stay," Watson never took his eyes off Mycroft as he stood up from his chair, "you're a part of this."

The landlady looked at the two rivaling men uncomfortably before she took her place in the corner again.

"What's this about, Dr. Watson? There are more pressing matters at hand instead of your disagreement with me-"

"Enough," John silenced him, "you know more than you're letting on, Mycroft. You gave Sherlock a case."

"Now, John, I couldn't possibly be-"

"Liar."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, disliking the consistent interruptions, but John's gaze was hard and unshakable, Mrs. Hudson now eyeing him distrustfully in the corner.

"Okay."

"Okay, what?"

"Okay, I gave Sherlock a new case, one of significant magnitude and importance."

"Damn you," Watson whispered under his breath, "he might die because of you."

"Sherlock chose to take the case out of his own volition, that was not my decision."

"Yeah, but you knew! You knew he would take it!"

"My brother is a detective, this is what he does for a living, he knows the risks!"

John quieted down as Mycroft raised his voice.

"What was the case?" John asked, tersely.

"That's classified information."

"Oh, please!" John scoffed.

"I will repeat myself, I cannot speak of it!"

"Mycroft, this is Sherlock we're talking about, your own brother! I'm not asking you to do it for me, just think of your sibling, your own blood! He could be lost and this entire investigation relies on your decision!"

Mycroft took a shaky breath, at war with himself. John knew Mycroft cared for Sherlock in his own, twisted way but his obligation to country was an overwhelming force in his life. Finally, he looked at Mrs. Hudson who had tears streaming down her cheeks and bottom lip quivering as she tried to hold in her sobs. She missed Sherlock, John did too, but she'd known Sherlock longer than he had. She was the closest thing he had to a mother and despite all of his flaws, she was always there for him.

"All right," Mycroft exhaled deeply, sitting back down, "but if this information leaves this room, we are talking about a serious risk to national security."

"Continue," John crossed his arms.

"A Parliamentary decision just passed for extra land rights formally recognized by our government in favor of the Israeli government. In retaliation, a group of Palestinian extremists are plotting an act of terrorism in the heart of London. I put Sherlock on the case to find Farooq and Abbad Bahar, the masterminds behind this caper, and he was investigating the situation."

"You put Sherlock on a dangerous terrorist organization's radar?" John gawked.

"Yes, Dr. Watson," Mycroft rolled his eyes, "you've seen my brother's clientele, between Jim Moriarty, Charles Magnuson, and Culverton Smith, I hardly think the Bahars are up to his usual standard."

"Save the wit, Mycroft," John grit his teeth, "what else do you know?"

"I think I've told you quite enough, thank you."

"Mycroft!"

"No, that's all I told Sherlock and that's all I'll tell you, Dr. Watson," Mycroft sniffed as he sat back down, "tell Lestrade to bring in his little dogs."

"I'll get him," Mrs. Hudson quietly walked to the door.

"You really have no remorse," John looked at Mycroft, shaking his head in disappointment.

"My brother and I have a complex relationship, John, he does all of the-"

"Leg work, yes, I know. Heaven forbid you step out of you pristine tower. Make Sherlock do it all."

Mycroft didn't respond, but his eyes flashed with anger.

The door opened as Lestrade, Donovan, and Andersen re-entered the room. Mrs. Hudson closed the flat door as she left the investigative team alone.

"Andersen said he's got something," Lestrade gestured to the forensic analyst.

"Yeah," he stepped forward, "I traced the number from your mobile, but it was a little hard. There were firewalls and security blocking the signal, but it's coming from a number uptown. I couldn't place the exact location, but I have a pretty good estimate."

"Good," John grabbed his coat as he walked out the door, "let's go."

 **Chapter four coming soon!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Enjoy Chapter four! Leave me a fav/follow/review!**

 _Sherlock looked around the space. He needed to find a way out. His eyes adjusted to the dim, brown light and he was able to make out some objects in the room. The chair he was tied down to was bolted to the floor, so there was no way of breaking it. The other objects were far off. He needed his captors in here again, their tools from the outside, their weapons._

 _"_ _All right!" Sherlock shouted, knowing they were listening, "I'll talk!"_

 _He rolled his eyes as the door creaked open within thirty seconds, his captors eager for information. Sherlock's sharp blue eyes stared them down, delivering his hardest stare. One of them brought in an aluminum chair as the man in the doorway sat down, facing Sherlock. He had a cigarette hanging in between his lips, puffing the smoke in the detective's direction. Sherlock clenched his jaw._

 _"_ _I know who you are," the man smiled with his rotten teeth, his heavy accent barely making the words decipherable._

 _"_ _Is that so?" Sherlock raised a brow, "Please, oblige me."_

 _"_ _How did you find this place?" the man continued, taking a puff from his sloppily rolled cigarette._

 _"_ _I'm just a humble junkie looking for a hit, that's all," Sherlock shrugged._

 _"_ _No games!" the man slapped a hand against the aluminum chair, the metal ring echoing throughout the shelter._

 _"_ _No games," Sherlock repeated. His cheek was slightly purple from the strike and the wound on the back of his head throbbed painfully._

 _"_ _You know."_

 _"_ _I know what?" Sherlock cocked his head._

 _"_ _You know what!"_

 _Sherlock laughed._

 _The man threw his chair across the room and came face to face with the detective, holding his cigarette dangerously close to Sherlock's neck._

 _"_ _Talk!"_

 _Sherlock didn't even flinch. He flung his skull back and head butted the Palestinian radical. The man growled and screamed, holding his bleeding nose as his cigarette dropped from his fingertips and safely to the floor, by the detective's feet. His captor stumbled back, caught by his two men. His eyes were filled with rage and he cursed Sherlock with harsh, gritty, foreign words. He didn't respond, just breathed deep and even. A red splotchy bruise was already forming on the man's forehead as his men propped him back up on his feet. His breathing was full of fury, his shoulders bouncing up and down as he looked like an angry bull._

 _From his belt, the man unsheathed a long, metal blade. The razor sharp edge glinted in the dim light as the man ran at Sherlock. His men didn't try to stop him as the blade ran straight through his shoulder flesh and hit the muscle. Sherlock growled and yelled in surprise as the man's rage filled eyes stared straight into his own, sweaty hand still holding the hilt of the knife protruding out of Sherlock's shoulder. Blood squirted from the wound, dripping down his ratty shirt and onto the floor in full drops._

 _Sherlock grunted, his breath coming out in harsh gasps as his pain translated into anger. He spat at the man who jumped away, but only further fueled his fury. The man moved in to attack Sherlock again, but the other men pulled him back._

 _"_ _I know who you are!" the man growled, looking ready to pounce on him like a panther._

 _"_ _Is that so?" Sherlock panted, looking up at the man with a glare, "Oblige me."_

 _"_ _You die," the man cackled, "you die here, Mycroft Holmes."_

 ** _Mycroft Holmes?_**

 _Sherlock tried not to show his surprise, he kept up his same, placid gaze._

 _"_ _You in Parliament," the man spat as he circled Sherlock, "you give our lands to the Jewish! Lands that belong to us!"_

 _They think I'm my brother…they think I'm Mycroft. Why? Mycroft told me he had a part to play in the decision regarding Jerusalem land rights, but how could the Hamas take me for my brother?_

 _"_ _Don't act like you no know," the man sneered, "we have photos."_

 _He barked a command to the man behind him who produced a black folder. The man slid out large photographs from within, flipping them for Sherlock to see like some presentation. He eyed them closely. They were snapshots of Sherlock and Mycroft at the cafe, where Mycroft first presented Sherlock the case of the Bahar brothers. There were some of Mycroft emerging from his black Mercedes, some of Sherlock sitting alone at the table waiting for his brother, some of Sherlock leaving, walking down the street._

 _They thought he was Mycroft, that meant they thought Mycroft was Sherlock. This wasn't a totally wasteful situation, he could play on this. He just needed to act like his brother._

 _Sherlock urged fake tears and looked up at the man with a whimper, "Please, please don't hurt me. I-I'll do anything you want, please!"_

 _The man stood back, watching Sherlock like he was a new person, which essentially he was._

 _"_ _The-the knife, please!" Sherlock cried._

 _The man warily moved forward, "Not until you talk."_

 _"_ _I'll say anything! What do you want to know?"_

 _The man looked back at the other two lingering by the wall who shrugged. He muttered something in Arabic, and one exited before entering again with a rudimentary looking first aid kit. He approached Sherlock and pulled out the painful dagger. Sherlock just grunted slightly as the blade exited his flesh, but tried to continue his charade._

 _"_ _Oh, please, bless you, thank you," he sniffed, trying to blink to dry his fake tears._

 _"_ _Now you talk more," the man threw a dirty rag at Sherlock. Blood still dripped from his shoulder wound._

 _"_ _Okay, okay," he made his voice shake, "I-I'll tell you, it's just…please, let me go."_

 _"_ _I decide that."_

 _"_ _All right, um, okay, well Parliament came to the decision, and-and we knew that a possible terrorist threat by radicals was imminent."_

 _"_ _Radicals!" the man snarled, "We no radicals! We heroes!"_

 _"_ _Yes, yes, of-of course," Sherlock stuttered, "heroes."_

 _"_ _Continue."_

 _"_ _We-we tried to locate the base of the Hamas organization, but-"_

 _"_ _Hamas?" the man roared, "how you know the Hamas?!"_

 _"I-uh, we hired a man. I didn't exactly know, but he found-"_

 _"_ _Who!?"_

 _"_ _I've never met him! I didn't hire him, that was someone else in my office!"_

 _"_ _You lie!" the man growled and slapped the photos in Sherlock's face, "It was this man!"_

 _"_ _O-okay, okay! Y-yes, it was," the man was pointing at Mycroft in the photo._

 _"_ _Who is he?"_

 _"_ _He's-he's a detective, a brilliant one. I-I can't disclose any more information, please. I need water, something, my shoulder is bleeding!"_

 _The man looked at Sherlock's whimpering facade up and down before he grunted, feeling satisfied with what he learned so far._

 _"_ _Detective?" the man circled the chair once again._

 _"_ _Y-yes."_

 _"_ _You know him?"_

 _"_ _Yes, I-I met him once."_

 _"_ _Call him."_

 _"_ _Excuse me?"_

 _"_ _Call him!" the man snarled._

 _"_ _All right, all right!" Sherlock flinched, "I-I need a mobile, I don't have my m-mobile. My belongings, where-where are my things?"_

 _"_ _Stop talking," the man demanded before turning to his cohorts in the back. The man ordered something of them in Arabic, but Sherlock's ears perked when he heard the name "Farooq" in the sentence. He was getting close. This disguise as his brother just might work._

 _One of the other men came back with a black mobile, probably disposable and untraceable. He opened the dial pad and turned it to face Sherlock._

 _"_ _Tell me number," the man grunted._

 _"_ _Uh-uh, I don't know it off the top of my head, if I could have my things then-"_

 _"_ _Tell me!"_

 _"_ _Fine, fine!" Sherlock quivered. He tried to make it look like he was racking his brain before reciting a number._

 _The man eyed it, told one of his men something again in Arabic, then put the phone under Sherlock's ear. The detective looked up at the man with fearful eyes, as the ringing echoed through his ears._

 _Pick up, pick up, pick up…_

 _Nothing._

 _Sherlock felt the man pull away the phone and the detective shrugged._

 _The man dialed again. No answer._

 _Again. No answer._

 _Again and again and again._

 _Finally, an answer._

 _"_ _What?!"_

 _"_ _Emergency. Back to Baker Street, quick as you can. Call me when you're there."_

John was riding in the back of the squad car. Lestrade was at the wheel, and Donovan in the passenger. Watson stared out the window, his mind racing with thoughts boggling in his mind. What if Sherlock was hurt? Tortured? Killed? He couldn't even imagine life like that again. Those two years without Sherlock were miserable, and he never got over the death of his best friend.

"We're here," Lestrade screeched to a stop on the curb.

"This is the address?" John eyed the rather nice hotel they had parked by.

"No, this is part of the vicinity Andersen gave us to search for Sherlock. He should be around here somewhere. Let's start knocking."

John bounced on his heels, knowing there was a better way to handle this. Sherlock would never subject himself to going door to door like a salesman. He would find a more efficient method.

It only took three rejections at three locations to make Watson antsy.

"This isn't working," he gritted his teeth, "we've lost thirty minutes already, we've got to find another way to go about this."

"Any ideas?"

"Sherlock couldn't have just left us empty handed," Watson paced the sidewalk, "think!"

"His call meant nothing," Donovan shook her head, "that was our only lead. All he said was 'Emergency. Head to Baker Street quick as you can. Call me when you're there.'"

"Wait," John narrowed his brows, "wait, that's genius!"

"What?" Donovan pressed.

"We've got to get back to 221B!" John ran to the car, so did the others as Lestrade flashed the sirens and flew down the street.

Mycroft heard the heavy footfalls leading up the stairs and he took a terse breath, preparing himself for another complaint from John or a dim remark from Detective Inspector Lestrade. His hypothesis was wrong. The trio came bounding up the stairs and didn't even notice Andersen, Mycroft, or Mrs, Hudson in the room. John ran straight down the hall to the back rooms and the two members of Scotland Yard watched him go.

"What's that all about?" Andersen narrowed his eyes as John clamored in the back room.

"I don't know," Lestrade tried peering down the hall, "I think he's in Sherlock's room."

"Sherlock has a _room?"_ Donovan scoffed, "The Freak sleeps?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Here it is!" John came bounding out of the bedroom and into the den. In his hand was a small, black mobile.

"Sherlock's mobile?" Mrs. Hudson narrowed her eyes.

"Hmm," Mycroft nodded, eyes lighting up, "I missed that. Decent work, Dr. Watson."

John snorted. That was the closest he was going to get to a compliment from the older Holmes.

"Well, some of us don't have brains like you boys," Lestrade nodded at Mycroft, "explain please, John."

"I didn't think Sherlock left a clue, but he did!" John beamed excitedly, "'Emergency. Back to Baker Street quick as you can. _Call me when you get there."_

"Call him?" Andersen gawked, "as in actually call him?"

"It's worth a shot," Lestrade shrugged.

"It's Sherlock. I bet that's what he means," Donovan mentioned.

"Sherlock leaves his mobile behind sometimes, as I said earlier. He had one call and only a few short seconds to deliver a message and that was it. He said 'call me when you get there,' as in literally call him."

"Okay, I understand him urging you to get back to 221B, but what does that have to do with the mobile?"

"Because the mobile is at the flat. Sherlock wasn't here at the time of the call, he was referring to the mobile."

"But why call him when the mobile is here?" Donovan cocked her head, "It's password protected, we can't crack it in time."

"Try the voicemail tone," Mycroft suggested. The group looked at Sherlock's older brother who kept his mouth shut further.

John dialed Sherlock's number from his mobile and put it on speaker. Sherlock's mobile rang in his other hand and he let the ringtone play out before the automated voicemail recording started to play.

"Please leave a message for:" the automated voice began, "John," Watson's heart lept when he heard Sherlock's voice over the recording, "I don't have a lot of time. If you hear this message, I am not safe. I am investigating Mycroft's case. My homeless network knows where to find me. 2111. Hurry."

The dial tone.

That was it, potentially Sherlock's last words to them all.

"My, he's clever," Lestrade nodded, an amazed smile on his lips, "the mobile was the key and it's been sitting under our noses all night!"

John typed in 2111 into the keypad and the mobile unlocked, the apps collecting on the free home screen. Watson scrolled through Sherlock's messages and saw random addresses from unknown numbers plastered on the screen, potential locations of Sherlock's whereabouts.

"Look at these!" John excitedly handed Lestrade the mobile who looked at the addresses in amazed shock.

"Okay, we've got locations!" Greg clapped, "Donovan fire up the car, Andersen call the Yard and get some teams ready to hit these addresses, let's move it, people!"

The wheels were in motion, the clues on Sherlock's whereabouts slowly starting to make more sense. John sighed a little, some relief settling into his stomach, knowing that Holmes would be found soon.

 _"_ _Get up!" Sherlock felt water splash in his face. He opened his bleary eyes and looked around the room, but was surprised to find he wasn't in the shelter anymore. He was in the back of a truck, tied down, and looking at the face of one of his captors. When did he move? The last thing he remembered, he was given a sip of water and then…_

 _"_ _You drugged me," Sherlock narrowed his eyes._

 _The man sneered, "Lucky you. You meet the boss."_

 _The Boss? That sounded promising. He prepared to get into character again._

 _"_ _Your-your b-boss?"_

 _The man smiled with a rack of gold and yellow teeth. He retreated, leaving Sherlock uncomfortably bound on the dirty floor of the cargo space. The drive was around twenty minutes long, and Sherlock tried to note the bumps and dips in the road. They increased as the journey continued, that meant they were leaving central London. The drive droned on for a while longer until the vehicle came to an abrupt stop. So far, all he'd been able to deduce was they were nearly 40 minutes out of central London, a rural landscape, drove over a rather rough track, and passed by a butchery, and turned the corner near a children's school. That narrowed down the possibilities._

 _Doors slammed shut and footsteps stepped through the gravel to the back of the truck. Sherlock prepared himself as he urged a frightened expression and a cowering body. Harsh light blared through the dark cabin as silhouettes stood in the doorway. Two hands pulled his rope and dragged Sherlock. He was compliant as they dropped him to the gravel, small pebbles painfully sticking into his back and scratching his scalp. Blood oozed from his now reopened wound. He bit his tongue, trying his absolute hardest to hold in a rebuke. If he knew John understood his message, then he'd need another clue to steer him in his direction. But, with the bumbling Lestrade at his side, it might take longer than expected. Sherlock couldn't call John again, but he'd need a way to get in touch._

 _The hands picked him up by his arms and he ground his teeth, trying to relieve the flaring pain from his shoulder. His nice, shining Oxfords dragged in the dirt, now scuffed and dusty. The cool wind blew against his hot cheek, relieving some of the sting from his bruise. His eyes darted across the landscape. There was nothing nearby, a city in the distance. Sherlock tried to scan for any significant landmarks to identify his whereabouts, when a large, stone castle loomed far off on the horizon. It was surrounded by pools of green pastures and grass, a giant rupture on the natural surface. Windsor Castle. He was in Windsor, not forty minutes out of central London._

 _Something quick and hard slapped him in the back of the head. He shook his head and looked up in fury to see one of his cackling captors laughing at him as his heavy, hairy paw slammed his skull. Sherlock repressed his seething anger and tried to look as frightened and vulnerable as possible. They approached a shambling, guarded building hidden in the canopy of the trees. Constricting vines trapped the house, rooting the walls in place as it contorted around the frame. Moss spread across the wooden planks like bacteria on a petri dish. Four heavily armed resembling his captors and speaking in Arabic hailed them as they approached: a prisoner with three Palestinian radicals. Never a good sign._

 _They bantered back and forth for a bit, exchanging information and the purpose of this unexpected visit. One of Sherlock's captors gestured down to him and said, "Mycroft Holmes."_

 _One of the men on the porch just studied Sherlock, eyeing him right and left, up and down until he nodded once. An acceptance to enter the house._

 _He was dragged forward again, but a blindfold was tied around his eyes now. Sherlock relied on his senses to navigate him and he was able to distinguish the sound of a drip in the corner, the smell of fresh sawdust, the taste of ash blowing through the air. It was a small house, a wood fireplace, plumbing problems, and recent remodeling._

 _Sherlock was unceremoniously tossed into another room, and the door shut. He could hear the shuffle of six or seven men in the room, three of them being his original captors. Sherlock waited patiently for the big reveal. The Bahar brothers had to make an appearance eventually, and he'd be there to catch them._

 _Sweaty hands fumbled with the blindfold knot at the back of his head. He rolled his eyes behind the cloth. Idiots…_

 _The fold peeled away before his eyes and he blinked a few times, trying to acclimate. Sherlock noticed many men in the room. It was a larger, abandoned bedroom with a rusted, twisted bed frame thrown in the corner, a broken dresser, and a few other sundry items._

 _"Mycroft Holmes, huh?" a man stepped forward with a dirty cap. His English was better than the original men, but they all shared that grimy smile._

 _"_ _Y-yes."_

 _"_ _I am Ekram."_

 _"_ _H-hello, pleased to-to make your acquaintance."_

 _They all laughed, probably loving the scared, bumbling Mycroft Holmes charade._

 _"_ _I hear you have information."_

 _"_ _Information? Information on what?"_

 _"_ _I don't know," Ekram smiled coyly, "you tell me."_

 _"_ _I want to talk to your-your superior," Sherlock gulped._

 _Ekram laughed, relaying the message to his pals in Arabic who laughed as well. Sherlock stood his ground._

 _"_ _I will talk to your superior, or I will not talk at all," he held his head high, a hard gaze challenging Ekram. Ekram clenched his jaw and stepped forward in a threatening motion. Sherlock didn't even flinch._

 _"_ _Your superior," Sherlock repeated slowly._

 _Ekram, without taking his eyes off Sherlock, held his hand out. One of the men behind him placed something glinting and cold in his hands before Sherlock felt the piercing tip of a scythe pressed against his cheek._

 _"_ _You don't make orders around here," Ekram snarled._

 _He flicked his wrist and the scythe dropped to his thigh, digging through his trousers and into his skin as Ekram slid it across his muscle in a painful motion. Sherlock bit his tongue, drawing blood, as blood welled up from his new, long wound._

 _Ekram dropped the scythe to the floor, and slapped a hand down on Sherlock's thigh. The detective hissed, clenched his teeth as Ekram's fingertips pressed against his bleeding leg._

 _"_ _You don't give orders around here," he smiled evilly, "I do."_

 _Sherlock ground his teeth, his blazing blue eyes staring straight into Ekram's as the men behind him watched with wide eyes. Sherlock nodded harshly as Ekram relieved his grip from the leg and the detective let out a shaky breath of relief._

 _"_ _Leave him," Ekram spat, smirking at his good work, "we'll return, Mycroft Holmes. If your tongue doesn't loosen up then, I'll have to do it for you."_

 _Ekram and his men sneered with boisterous laughter as they shuffled out of the empty room. Once the door closed, Sherlock smiled. In between his legs, hidden discreetly, was Ekram's golden scythe._

 **Chapter five coming soon!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Here's Chapter 5, hope you all enjoy! Leave me a fav/follow/review!**

"And?" John eagerly jogged up to Lestrade who ducked under the yellow caution tape. This was the third building they searched following the messages from Sherlock's homeless network's information.

Greg didn't look John directly in the eyes, something he wasn't telling the army doctor. John caught onto it instantly, putting a hand on Lestrade's shoulder to stop him from walking away.

"John-" Lestrade started, his tone unsure.

"Give it me straight, Lestrade," John took a deep breath, "tell me."

"This is the place."

Something cold gripped Watson's heart, but he didn't let it show through.

"How do you know?"

"We've got blood on the floors. Andersen ran it through a few tests and it matches Sherlock's."

"How much blood?" John gulped.

"Just a few drops," Greg said softly, "I don't think he was hurt too bad."

"But he was still hurt," John stated. That was fact.

"Wherever he is, it's not there anymore," Lestrade shook his head, "they've moved him."

"Who?"

"From what I can see, we're looking at the den of some terrorists. We've got counterterrorism all over it, but there are cooked spoons, torn flags, burned papers, some communication set-ups, and a few torture materials."

 _Torture_.

"Any idea where they are now?" Watson looked up and down the street, trying to see if anyone was watching them.

"No, Donovan found some fresh tracks though. Over here."

John followed the Detective Inspector to where Sally Donovan was kneeling in the dirt, looking at fresh tire prints embedded in the mud.

"A van," Donovan looked up at Lestrade when he neared, "big. Officers are checking CCTV footage to catch a plate, but otherwise we're in the dark."

"We have to find another clue," John paced, "Sherlock had to have left one."

"John, Sherlock is gone and probably dead," Donovan spoke like it was a slap to the face, "we've got bigger problems at hand, like a terrorist organization sitting right under our noses in central London and we don't know where they've gone."

Before John could respond, something shouted.

"Hey!" all of them turned their heads towards an officer in the distance waving his arms and calling them over.

Donovan, Lestrade, and Watson all ran over. The officer was standing in the overgrown, disheveled grass where a puddle formed in a small ditch.

"There," the officer pointed out in the puddle.

John looked closely inside, leaning in until he saw something black and square shaped resting on the muddy surface.

"Gloves," Donovan ordered. Someone obeyed and she slapped them on her wrist as she reached into the puddle and pulled out a soaking mobile phone.

"Sherlock's phone!" John's jaw dropped. Whatever negations he had about Sherlock not being here dissipated. He was here, now he was gone.

"Nice job," Lestrade nodded at the officer, "Donovan, get that back to the Yard and have Andersen see what he can pull out of it."

She nodded and placed the dripping mobile into an evidence bag before walking to her squad car.

"Lestrade, can I have a look inside?" John pleaded, looking at the Detective Inspector then at the house.

Greg looked at Watson, clearly torn apart with worry, yet as persistent as a bloodhound. He'd stop at nothing to get Sherlock back, and Lestrade was worried if he wasn't with John, the army doctor would engage in something dangerous to locate the detective.

"Fine," Lestrade conceded, "five minutes."

John practically ran inside the building, barging through the door, past lingering officers, over caution tapes, and down the stairs to the shelter. Lestrade was in close pursuit.

"Slow down, John!" the Detective Inspector panted, "you'll destroy the evidence."

"Here," John circled the bolted down wooden chair in the shelter, trying to find some evidence of any kind, "they had him here?"

"Yes, tied down with an 8 mm rope."

"10 mm rope," a new voice sounded from the doorway. John rolled his eyes, instantly recognizing it.

He saw the cane first, then the immaculately polished shoes, the crisp grey suit, the disapproving cowl, and that aura that radiated authority.

"Mycroft," John sighed, "what are you doing here?"

"What? I can't take an interest in my own brother's disappearance?"

"You? Take an interest? In Sherlock?"

"Oh, please, Dr. Watson, don't hold back your opinion," the elder Holmes strutted inside and shut the door with his cane, "as for the investigation, Detective Inspector, the rope was 10 mm in thickness, not 8. I find that a crucial element to include in the paperwork."

"I wouldn't call it _crucial_ ," John muttered.

Lestrade ignored the army doctor, "I'll go tell the boys," he exited the room, looking between the pair uncomfortably.

"So," John gestured to the room, "what can you tell me?"

"Excuse me?"

"About the room, what can you deduce? You constantly claim you're better than Sherlock, so prove it."

"I don't have to _prove_ anything to you."

"Oh, come on, Mycroft."

He sniffed, "Fine, but only to speed up the tantalizingly slow pace of this droning investigation," Mycroft circled the room, his quick eyes scanning everything for a few moments before he turned to John.

"Well?"

"The room was a bomb shelter, built during the World War II era to withstand the Luftwaffe attacks by the German Army. It's been remodeled twice-no, three times since. It is durable, has thick walls, therefore good for torturing to reduce the risk of noise being heard from the street. Sherlock was tied down in this chair with 10 mm rope, with approximately three captors judging by the boot stains. One of them was smoking, not Sherlock, how can I tell? Well, Sherlock is a smoke addict, to get him to talk his captors might've coerced him with a cigarette, but judging by the angle of the fallen ash, it was his captors. My brother was wearing his coat, but suffered a stab wound to the right shoulder I would say. The thick fabric probably soaked up most of the blood, therefore stifling the blood flow of the wound, but-"

Mycroft stopped, noticing John's amused look.

"What?" he raised a brow.

John tried to suppress a smile, "Nothing, nothing."

"Dr. Watson."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your gaze betrays your words entirely. What is it?"

"You just remind me a lot of Sherlock."

"Oh, don't start," Mycroft sniffed.

"No, seriously!" John chuckled, "Usually Sherlock does all of the 'legwork,' but the way you walk, talk, act, it's very much like him."

"You mean very much like me. I was born first, everything my brother learned, it was from my behalf."

"Whatever you say, Mycroft."

"Boys!" Lestrade came bounding in, and excited look on his face, "you've gotta come see this."

John went bounding out of the room, following the rushing Lestrade as Mycroft exited as his own leisure, elegant as a jungle cat. His cane tapped rhythmically against the worn floors, but he exited the building and walked towards a large Scotland Yard issued van. He prodded up the steps and saw Dr. Watson and DI Lestrade bent over a monitor.

"One of our men in forensics managed to nab the footage before it was too late. Some of the tape's been ripped up, but he salvaged some. Take a look."

Mycroft leaned forward, mildly interested.

Through the grainy, black and white footage, was the recording of Sherlock, tied down precisely in the chair with 10 mm rope, one of the captors was smoking a cigarette as clarified by Mycroft, and two other men were standing in the back.

 _"_ _Talk!"_ the captor held the glowing cigarette butt dangerously near Sherlock's neck. The detective didn't even flinch.  
The man held his hand back, one of the other men placed a dagger in his hand, and he leaned forward, plunging the blade into Sherlock's right shoulder. John flinched next to Lestrade, his hands pressed against his mouth.

Sherlock made a slight movement, but it was hard to tell through the weak footage. Mycroft focused again.

 _"_ _I know who you are!"_

 _"_ _Is that so?"_ Sherlock laughed, but the sound was tainted with pain, _"Oblige me."_

"Wait for it," Greg mumbled, looking at the two.

 _"_ _You die,"_ the captor smiled and spoke in a sinister voice, _"you die here, Mycroft Holmes."_

The monitor went black.

"That's all we got," Lestrade spoke in a low voice.

John's mouth was wide open, eyes looking at the screen blankly.

"Mycroft Holmes?" he whispered, confused.

The real Mycroft Holmes racked his brain, slightly intrigued with the twist. This was slightly…entertaining, dare he say. Locked up in an office all day dealing with idiots, but he was doing Sherlock's speciality. Detective work, mystery solving, chasing morons around the city. He didn't find it amusing at all, not at all, this was below him, he had much more important things to do…

The elder Holmes walked out of the van.

"Mycroft?" John called after him, "Where are you going?"

He continued to walk.

"Hey!"

"John, don't mistake me for my brother. I don't 'solve mysteries' like he does, and I certainly won't confide in you like a partner. I don't know what potential my brother sees in you, but I refuse to sink to that bar."

"Oh, quiet, Mycroft!" John scoffed, "Stop acting like you are God's gift from heaven, okay? We're in a collaborative effort here, and if you didn't just notice, a major clue was handed to us in there. Now, you and your brother have this uncanny ability to help others and it's time for you to put it to good use, so get in there and tell us what you've got."

Mycroft released a stubborn breath as he grumbled and stalked back inside the van.

John followed.

"Okay," DI Lestrade rubbed his hands together as he closed the door, "go."

"Well," Mycroft sat down elegantly and crossed his legs, "either these are the most idiotic terrorists I've ever witnessed, or they're playing a clever charade."

"Explain."

"The only instance my brother and I met regarding this case was yesterday morning. I presented the data to him at our usual cafe and there must've been a set of eyes watching us. When my brother started investigating, I can only assume they thought he was me, which for the life of me I don't understand. So, they captured him. No wonder he isn't here, those men probably took 'Mycroft Holmes' to their superior."

"But why you? Do they know who you are?" Lestrade narrowed his brows.

"I assume so, Detective Inspector. They didn't abduct my younger brother because of his natural charm now, did they?"

"So they think Sherlock is Mycroft, so what does that make you?" John looked at him.

"Why Sherlock, I suppose."

"Oh God," Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck, "I wasn't prepared for this."

"None of us were, Detective Inspector," Mycroft's voice hardened, "now, if you'll excuse me, I'm done playing games."

"No, no, wait," the gears in John's brain turned, "this might actually be extremely brilliant or totally moronic."

"Knowing you, probably the latter," Mycroft huffed.

"What if we keep playing their game?" John ignored the comment, "What if _you_ were Sherlock Holmes?"

"Me?" Mycroft scoffed, "As Sherlock Holmes? You must be joking!"

"Hardly!" Watson smiled, "Mycroft, this investigation is in our favor now. If I know Sherlock, he's a locked box. They won't get a word out of him, but you said so yourself they probably took him to his superior if they thought he was you. That means Sherlock went along with the game and pretended to be you, now we can counterstrike."

"There will be no counterstrike, Dr. Watson, I think you've had enough of this case," Mycroft sniffed.

"You don't get to tell me when I've had enough," John growled, "but if Sherlock is further injured because of your little stunt, I am holding you personally accountable."

"Mycroft, just play the game," Lestrade spoke in a calm tone, "for your brother's sake."

"Because of your incessant begging, I will agree to a minimal role in the case," Mycroft spat, "I assigned this case to my brother for a specific reason, that's because I don't have time to address it. So, if you think I'm about to adopt the persona of 'Sherlock Holmes," then you two are severely mistaken. The sole interest I have for my brother's safe return is to finish this case once and for all and not slander my name to terrorists because it's Sherlock's idea of 'fun.'"

"Very well," Watson nodded once, "thank you, Mycroft."

He nodded curtly in return then stormed off.

 _Sherlock rounded the corner, poking his blue eyes a bit over the wall as he scanned the desolate hallway. No sign of anybody lingering. He held the scythe in his steady hand, and turned the corner. His task was to find the Bahars and now he was in their main location. But, there had to be a way to contact John. Find a phone, find a phone…._

 _Aha!_

 _He passed the kitchen and saw a black landline plugged into the wall. Sherlock ran to it, his footsteps lightly tapping against the floor. He cringed when his shoulder strained and more blood poured onto his shirt and through the fingers he pressed down against the wound._

 _He dialed the number and held the phone against his ear, but the dial tone just rang in his ear. Holmes slammed it back down and cursed to himself. He could contact John through morse code, Watson was a military man, he'd understand it. But how? It wasn't going to be a conventional message, they didn't have telegraphs set up on both ends. He needed to be clean and concise. This was going to take work and he couldn't get caught._

 _Sherlock needed to get a look outside first, observe the building in full light. His stomach growled and his throat burned, but his heart raced with excitement. This was part of the game, and adding an element of predator and prey made it that much more enticing. Sherlock crept out of the building, sneaking through a window as he landed in the soft grass. Open road faced him, and he could run away at any second but he couldn't abandon the case. Not in any lifetime._

 _The building was a proper height, a lone house in the middle of shrubs and low-hanging trees. But, at the top was a little crow's nest type fixture, probably for a lookout to alert if any authorities were approaching._

 _Sherlock began to climb, growling when his shoulder ached painfully. He was almost there, almost there. The detective made the climb, lingering at the top. The wind blew freely in his hair, and he took deep lungfuls of it. Nobody was there with him, but Sherlock needed to be careful in case some wandering terrorist came stalking up the stairwell. In between his teeth was a paper and pen as he quickly sketched the horizon, noting the distance buildings of Windsor. It took him a few minutes, but he made a rough draft of his whereabouts and slipped the paper inside his breast pocket. Sherlock climbed down the stairwell, feeling the fresh air one more time. His shoe hit the grass as he touched down and went running off to a small building on the outskirts of town. It was maybe a half a mile away, but that didn't stop a trail of blood to be left behind him, staining the grass drop by drop. The building got closer, a wooden shack with the teetering sign "POST OFFICE" hanging out front. He felt his pockets: no money, no mobile, no wallet. He'd have to improvise._

 _The detective ran into the building, his sketch clenched in his hand. It was now crinkled and blood stained the thin paper. The employee was an old gentleman hard of hearing who looked at Sherlock behind craggy skin and didn't give a damn about the disheveled, bleeding man in front of him._

 _"_ _Can I use your mobile?" Sherlock panted as he held his shoulder and looked at the clerk._

 _"_ _Employees only," the man spat, "piss off."_

 _"_ _It's an emergency," his eyes drifted down to the phone on the desk._

 _"_ _I wont repeat myself."_

 _Sherlock growled and reached across the desk to pick up the phone and hold it to his ear. The man behind the desk was laughing a throaty, frothing laugh._

 _"_ _What?" the detective growled as the man kept laughing through his stained teeth. The dial tone just echoed in his ears._

 _"_ _The mobile doesn't work, lad!" he crowed and laughed louder._

 _"_ _Damn!" Sherlock slammed the mobile back down on the receiver, "Let me use yours!"_

 _"Mine? I'm too old to own one of them gadgets!"_

 _"_ _This is a post office, right?"_

 _"_ _Yeah."_

 _"_ _Then, let me send a fax!"_

 _"_ _Don't have a machine. My sister's using it."_

 _Sherlock narrowed his eyes in anger, "Fine. Let me send a letter."_

 _A speeding engine could be heard down the street. Sherlock could see men piling in that white van as another pointed down in the dirt from far off. It was Ekram and he caught sight of Sherlock's blood trail._

 _"_ _Quickly!" Sherlock urged as the man listlessly tossed him a paper, pen, and envelope._

 _There was not enough time to explain. Sherlock stuffed his sketch into the envelope and grabbed a sticky note sitting on the desk. On it he wrote two word to alert his friends, to alert John. Two words so they'd be ready._

 _Sherlock slipped the envelope shut, two papers inside, and tossed it to the man._

 _He went storming out the building, sprinting off into town as the vehicle approached, the men shouting and laughing at this game of predator and prey._

 _The detective slowed down. He knew he was going to get caught and why waste his energy when he could conserve it for something later. He didn't want to give these men the satisfaction of hunting him down like an animal. Sherlock turned around boldly as the van screeched to a stop, nearly hitting him. The men were shocked inside, laughter dying, but quickly recovered as one of them came sprinting at him, grabbing him by the chest as he tackled Sherlock down and went crashing to the floor. His vision was swimming, and two figures loomed over him, yelling and laughing. Their features were distorted, and his eyes were closing unwillingly. It was a probable concussion that augmented his senses, but darkness engulfed him before he could react._

 _"_ _Tie him down!" an angry voice yelled, "Tightly this time! How did he escape?"_

 _Sherlock's eyes opened and he pulled his wrists up, noticing the restraints on his limbs. He growled and lifted his head. He was no longer in the abandoned room, but in a plush office. There was a desk, a couch, a henchman, a monitor, and a communications set. Still dingy, but nicer than the other two establishments._

 _"_ _Mycroft Holmes," Ekram came into his line of vision, "you aren't all what you say you are."_

 _Sherlock kept his mouth shut, eyes smoldering._

 _"_ _You're tricky," Ekram laughed, "I like that. Much funner to kill."_

 _"_ _More fun."_

 _"_ _Excuse me?" he narrowed his eyes._

 _"_ _Not 'funner,'" Sherlock's gaze never wavered, "more fun. If you want to attack the country, at least familiarize yourself with its language first."_

 _"_ _You little-" Ekram pulled his hand back, ready to deliver a heavy blow when a new voice sounded from the doorway._

 _"_ _Enough," Sherlock couldn't see the man, but heard his gruff voice, "leave us."_

 _Multiple men shuffled out, part of Ekram's posse, but their leader was reluctant to leave. He glanced once at the mysterious man and left, growling to himself._

 _The man rounded the desk and sat down in the chair. It creaked loudly, but both of their eyes met and studied the other intently. He snapped a finger and a henchman came forward, placing a small cup of water in front of Sherlock._

 _"_ _Drink, Mycroft Holmes," the man exhaled._

 _Sherlock knew it was a tactic to try and entice him, to be more comfortable around the man and more willing to reveal any information he might be keeping. Thirsty, the detective gestured to his restrained hands with a smug smile, testing him. The henchman moved forward, unlatched one wrist. Sherlock leaned forward and grabbed the small cup, downing the water as it soothed his dry throat. The moment he leaned back into the chair, the restraint was one again._

 _"_ _Farooq Bahar," Sherlock smiled, noticing he identified the man correctly when he stiffened slightly. The detective recognized him from the photo at Buckingham Palace._

 _"_ _You know me," Bahar narrowed his eyes._

 _"_ _It's my job."_

 _"_ _Your job? The one as a bureaucrat to British Intelligence? Or have the talents of your brother Sherlock Holmes the detective rubbed off on you?"_

 _Sherlock shrugged, "I occupy a minor position in the British Government," smiling as he quoted his brother._

 _"_ _You escaped from here," Farooq folded his hands, "but my men say you didn't run. Why?"_

 _"_ _What can I say? Abduction suits me."_

 _"_ _Enough games," Bahar's eyes flashed, "how much do you know?"_

 _"_ _I don't have any information."_

 _"_ _I've heard that plea many, many times, Mr. Holmes. Know that we have ways to extract that information from you."_

 _"_ _Do your worst."_

 _"_ _You met Ekram, correct?"_

 _Sherlock snarled, "Unfortunately."_

 _"_ _Ekram has friends too, I'm sure they'd delight in a catch like you."_

 _"_ _I already told you, I don't have any information."_

 _"_ _You know, for a bureaucrat, you don't act like one."_

 _"_ _And for a terrorist, you don't act like one either."_

 _He struck a chord there._

 _"_ _You imagine us all to be brutish and violent, correct? Understand that intelligence is your greatest enemy in this war."_

 _"_ _War? What war?"_

 _"_ _Your country's interference with my own."_

 _"_ _Enough!" Sherlock spat, his vision turning spotty, "Let me go, or the consequences will be ones you've never experienced."_

 _"_ _Do you worst, Mycroft Holmes," Farooq smiled sinisterly, "but my, my…you don't look so good."_

 _Sherlock blinked, trying to get his bearings. The edges of his vision smeared and his eyelids were closing. He could feel his skull get heavier, wanting to loll against his chest. His thoughts were scattered, unable to create suitable connections._

 _"_ _You-you drugged me," Sherlock's voice sounded distant and slurred._

 _"_ _You'll be fine, Mr. Holmes," Farooq stood up and approached the chair, "just a truth serum, something to loosen that tight mouth of yours. I hope you find it within yourself to cooperate, because if not I'll make sure you wake up to one of Ekram's nasty surprises."_

 _Sherlock felt his eyes rolled back, as Bahar's laughter droned through his ears._

 **Chapter six coming soon!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6! Leave me a fav/follow/review please! Love to hear what you guys think!**

"Forensics came back with a full report of the abandoned building uptown," Lestrade entered 221B, where Watson silently mulled.

"And?"

"Those fresh tire tracks lead off, we're guessing out in the country somewhere."

"Bloody hell!" John's tea cup rattled against the saucer, "We'll never find him at this rate!"

"What happened to Mycroft?"

"He claimed he needed a quiet place to confer with his mind."

"Which is?"

"Upstairs," John nodded towards the staircase, "Sherlock's room."

"Should I get him?"

"No," Watson shook his head, "if this is some way Mycroft can get to his own Mind Palace, then I'll leave it."

"Two Mind Palaces?" Lestrade's eyes widened, "And London hasn't fallen?"

"You tell me, Detective Inspector," John chuckled halfheartedly

Greg noticed Watson's glum mood and put a hand on his shoulder, "We'll find a way, Dr. Watson, we'll get Sherlock back."

"Lestrade, I can't help but think they've hurt him more," John fretted, "that-that knife wound, Mycroft said it was-"

"Don't think like that," Greg nudged his shoulder, "keep your chin up, we'll find him."

Footsteps began to descend.

"Here he comes," Lestrade shifted in his chair.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft appeared in the doorway, his tall, lean shadow leaning against the wall, "Dr. Watson."

"Mycroft," John stood up, "have you thought of anything?"

"Yes," he nodded once, curtly.

"Really?" DI Lestrade turned to him, interested.

"A cup of tea first."

"Mrs. Hudson!" John called from the top of the stairs, "Can you put a pot to boil, please?"

The landlady answered with her sweet, frail voice tinged with worry. Mycroft was adamant not to explain before Mrs. Hudson appeared with his fresh cup. He blew the steam billowing off the warm liquid with a light blow before he took a sip and relaxed.

"I made a few calls and coerced a few friends," Mycroft began, "but I think I've located the general area of Sherlock's recent whereabouts."

"Really?" Lestrade's eyes widened, "How?"

"I have powerful connections, Detective Inspector," Mycroft held his head high, "otherwise, I suggest we get on the road."

"Of course," Greg nodded, "I'll fire up the squad car, we can all pile in and-"

"No," the elder Holmes sniffed, "we are not all going to 'pile in,' Detective Inspector. I have my car, and my driver is perfectly capable of handling directions."

"Okay," Lestrade held up his hands, "then we'll follow."

Mycroft nodded to note that was more appropriate and Lestrade left the room.

"I'm riding with you," John grabbed his coat.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft gawked, "Detective Inspector Lestrade's vehicle has ample amount of room for you to-"

"No," Watson shook his head, "I still have a few questions to ask you before we get there."

Mycroft knew there was no room for argument based on the glare in Watson's eyes and hesitantly agreed. He felt like he was agreeing to a lot lately, too much. Is this really how his brother operated? It was childish and demanding.

Watson sat down in the plush luxury vehicle waiting for the older Holmes parked at the curb. Mycroft lowered himself into the seat next to him, putting a slight space in between them so as not to touch John. Watson rolled his eyes, but got comfortable. Mycroft relayed instructions to the driver who quickly merged into the main road and started off down the street.

"Did you have the vehicle tracked?" John looked to Mycroft.

"Let's say I have men who are very good at extracting information."

"But the neighbors said they didn't see anything, no license plate numbers," Watson narrowed his brows.

"Yes, but the neighbors are all cocaine addicts looking for their next hit," Mycroft crossed his legs, "it was just a matter of supply and demand."

"You bribed them? With drugs?"

"Desperate times, desperate measures. Isn't that the saying?"

"Yeah, but not from a civilian in a police investigation!"

"Get one thing very clear, Dr. Watson, I am neither police nor a civilian."

Clearly.

 _Sherlock awoke to a stabbing pain in his shoulder. His groggy eyelids lifted and he looked around him, the sensation in his body still numb to his concussed mind. That pain got louder and more demanding, suddenly engulfing his whole body._

 _"_ _Rise and shine, Mr. Holmes," a chuckling voice brought Sherlock to his senses._

 _Sherlock looked up, the light in his face burning his sensitive eyes. He turned away, seeing double of everything._

 _"_ _Even drugged, you have a strong will," Ekram's laughing voice continued, "you're more stubborn than my sister."_

 _Sherlock didn't respond, just tried to locate the source of his pain. That was good, he didn't reveal any information._

 _"_ _But, you heard what Farooq said. You don't open your mouth, and there will be a nasty surprise."_

 _"_ _Where am I?" Sherlock groaned._

 _"_ _Still here," Ekram snickered._

 _The pain traveled up his body, centered near his right shoulder where he was stabbed. When he tried to move forward, he winced, flopping back down against the wall as something yanked at his shoulder wound._

 _With a shaky hand, Holmes brought his fingers up to his shoulder and felt rough metal._

 _"_ _What?" his eyes widened, "What's…"_

 _"_ _You had trouble staying upright," Ekram smiled with gold teeth, "I thought I'd…relieve the pressure."_

 _Sherlock turned his head to the right, so he faced his shoulder; his heart almost leapt out of his chest. In his shoulder was a rusted, sharp hook, a large one, ones you spear whales with or used for construction. The sharp point dug inside his shoulder, the circular loop glinting under the lamplight. In horror, Sherlock looked up to see the hook hanging by a rope pulley from the ceiling. He looked down to see his feet standing on a small stool. His back was pressed against the cold cement wall._

 _"_ _Get me out!" Sherlock growled, "What are you doing? Get me out!"_

 _"_ _If you say so," Ekram smiled gleefully, as if he was hoping for Sherlock to utter those words. He strode forward._

 _"_ _No, no! No!" Sherlock shouted._

 _Ekram stuck his foot out and pushed the stool aside. Sherlock's legs gave out, no longer resting on the platform as he hung, the only thing keeping him up was the sharp hook embedded into his skin and muscle. The detective squinted his eyes closes, only the very tips of his shoes able to scuttle across the moldy floors. He cried out, the pain of his wound pressured as Sherlock tried to pull himself up by clasping his hands around the metal to relieve the weight on his shoulder. He flopped around like a fish out of water, the tips of his shoes wildly trying to find a grip on the floor and his arms desperately grasping for a handle to pull himself up._

 _Ekram's wild laughter echoed through the room, an excruciating background to his pain. Both sensations melded together in his mind. Laughter, pain, laughter, pain, laughter, pain._

 _"_ _Dance, Mr. Holmes, dance!" Ekram cackled, coming forward as he circled Sherlock. His eyes marveled at the sight of his writhing, the blood now streaming down his leg and onto the floor in a heavy pool, "Maybe this will jog your memory!"_

 _Sherlock gasped, his mind racing and heart pumping as his muscles quivered with exertion. His calves burned as he stood on his tip-toes, no stool to prop him upright. The pain in his body was excruciating, building up until he felt like he was going to explode._

 _"_ _A few hours might do you good," Ekram smiled evilly as he walked to the door, "think wisely before you answer me again."_

 _Ekram laughed on his way out, as he opened the creaking door and left Sherlock alone to suffer._

John rolled his eyes, softly tapping his head against the window, as Mycroft continued to go on about the moronic investigation techniques of Scotland Yard. He knew Mycroft was an arrogant bastard, but he didn't realize the bloke was this extensive in his complaints. It'd been 45 minutes, and the man was like a broken faucet. You turned him on and you couldn't turn him off after that.

A stroke of a miracle hit him when his mobile buzzed in his hand. Watson looked at the screen hopefully, wanting to see Sherlock's name as the Caller ID. No such luck, it was Mrs. Hudson.

John answered the call and pressed the device to his ear, "Mrs. Hudson?"

"John," she answered.

"Hi, are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. There's something that's come for you in the mail."

"What is it?" Mycroft turned to John, irritation etched into his brow, "Who's that?"

"The mail? For me?"

"Yes, yes, it's addressed to you."

"Mrs. Hudson, I get mail every day, thank you. Just leave it on the counter, I'll deal with it when I return," he was so focused on Sherlock's case, he didn't think about paying the bills at the moment.

"This one is significant, John," her voice cracked, "there's blood…"

"Blood?" Watson repeated.

"Blood?" Mycroft raised an interested brow.

"Where?"

"On the envelope," she stammered, "John, I'm frightened. What if it's a threat?"

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Mrs. Hudson, we have half of Scotland Yard patrolling the flat. Why don't you open it, check the contents, and text me a photo?"

"Okay, will do. Thank you, John."

"Thank you for calling, Mrs. Hudson."

He hung up the phone and turned to a bewildered Mycroft.

"Mrs. Hudson just found something in the mail," he sighed, "addressed to me."

"And the blood?"

"Stained on the envelope."

"That is rewarding news."

"Rewarding? That could be a message from the radicals! Sending me Sherlock's finger or something in the mail as a warning!"

"This isn't a Hollywood film, Dr. Watson, it's not that barbaric. I believe it's a message from Sherlock himself."

"Sherlock? A letter? Well, why couldn't he just call?"

"Perhaps he was indisposed."

"But he had enough opportunity to draft me a letter?"

His mobile buzzed. Mrs. Hudson delivered the image. John pressed the icon to open the file and he saw a photograph of the small, crinkled, bloodstained envelope. On it, his name and address were scribbled in smeared black in. Next to it was a torn piece of paper, just a sliver, and there was a sketch of a horizon on it. Buildings and trees were drawn onto the paper and below it the words **VATICAN CAMEOS** were clearly printed.

"Vatican Cameos," John whispered, heart racing.

Mycroft took the mobile from John and gazed at the image intently.

"Your alert phrase?" Mycroft raised a brow.

"Y-yes, how'd you know?"

"Please, my brother can keep almost nothing from me."

"But why send me a letter? What does this mean? The horizon?"

"By the looks of it," Mycroft took the paper with his fingers and held it up to the light, "the town of Windsor."

"Windsor? How do you know?"

"Notice the arches on the watch towers," he pointed it out with a calculating finger, "that's clearly Windsor Castle. Besides, I already said the abductors were traced to the countryside, not too far from Central London. Windsor is only 40 minutes away, it's a perfect match."

"But that's not solid evidence," John shook his head, "we need to get this right, Mycroft, this might be our last chance to get Sherlock back before it's too late. I need something a bit more tangible than a hunch for a crude sketch."

"Fine," Mycroft sniffed, "the envelope," he held it under his nose, "has just a hint of alcohol wafting from it. That's certainly not my brother, unless these terrorists offered him a drink out of the kindness of their hearts. No, the postman is an alcoholic, if he cant bear to part with a drink on the job. Furthermore, notice the shakiness of the font when he signed off on the return address. That's because he is an older gentleman, with clubbing fingers which suggest heart issues. Now, we have an elderly gentleman who drinks and with deteriorating health, but he's isolated himself. That means he's lost someone, probably a wife and a child. Here," John squinted as Mycroft turned his mobile screen towards him. There was a picture of an older gentleman, made to look even older because of an obvious substance abuse problem. He had an unkept white beard, heavy eye bags, and a glint in his eye.

"Who is that?"

"The post office employee in Windsor, Louis Bamford." Mycroft smirked, "I have powerful friends, Dr. Watson, I can find someone with just a click of a button."

"But you can't be sure that's him," John scoffed.

"Turn the envelope over, John."

John turned it around, scanning the envelope, but his eyes were drawn to those thick drops of blood.

"Look in the corner."

He narrowed his eyes and looked closer.

 **WINDSOR P.O.**

"Hey!" John looked to Mycroft, "You made that whole spiel up!?"

Mycroft just smiled with amusement.

"You're worse than your brother, you know that?"

"Quite," he pressed an intercom button on his armrest, directly linking him to the driver, "change of plans. Take us to Windsor, please."

"Right away, sir."

 _"_ _Knock, knock," Ekram smiled as he opened the door. The room was dark, but he could hear a small scuffle in the corner as his captive struggled to stand on his toes, his worn body just wanting to fall. Ekram switched on the light and marveled at the sight. Mycroft Holmes was white as a sheet, sweat streaming down his face, his black hair pressed against his forehead, his breathing harsh and labored, and his eyes bloodshot._

 _The moment he saw Ekram, the captive man growled. His eyes reflected pure hate and rage._

 _"_ _Ready to talk now?"_

 _"_ _I have nothing to tell you," the dark-haired man snarled._

 _"_ _Your chain begs to differ."_

 _Sherlock looked up at the quivering chain hanging from the ceiling, his blood slowly dripping down his pant leg because of it. He had been suspended for so long now, his vision was turning blotchy, and hands shaking._

 _"_ _I have nothing to tell_ ** _you,_** _" Sherlock barked, "but I will speak to Bahar."_

 _"_ _You cannot make commands!"_

 _"Bahar."_

 _"Farooq is too busy to concern himself with scum like you!"_

 _Ekram opened his mouth to speak when a gruff voice crackled over the walkie talkie in his hand. He held it to his hear, listening intently, until his lip twitched in anger._

 _"_ _Your lucky day," Ekram hissed, "Farooq will see you."_

 _Two men came into the room behind Ekram. Sherlock's blurring vision couldn't make out their features sharply, but one was wielding an ax. He heaved the weapon back and knocked the blade against the pulley rope. The taut cord collapsed and Sherlock went with it. He fell to the floor, head swimming and limbs heavy._

 _Strong hands grabbed him by his arms, the one holding his right limb already drenched in his seeping blood. They dragged Sherlock out of the room, and he felt his sore legs regain blood flow after propping up his hanging body for what seemed like hours. That large hook in his shoulder pulled against his muscle and he grit his teeth. Ekram noticed the hook, but waited a few more seconds before he leaned forward, gripped the rough metal in his hands, and pulled mercilessly. Sherlock bit back a response._

 _His head lolled forward against his chest, his breaths coming out in harsh gasps, as the men dragged him inside the office he first met Farooq in. Sherlock was lifted and dropped in the chair. There was no need for restraints, seeing as the detective could barely lift his own limbs._

 _He only waited a few seconds before heavy boots sounded in the office. A deep voice ordered for Ekram and the two men to exit the room in a foreign language, and Sherlock looked up with bloodshot blue eyes as Farooq sat his desk across from him._

 _"_ _Mr. Holmes," Bahar remarked, "you look a bit worse for wear."_

 _"_ _No thanks to you."_

 _"I overheard that you had something to say to me."_

 _"_ _Call off your dog Ekram."_

 _Farooq chuckled, "He got to you, eh?"_

 _"_ _Nobody gets to me," Sherlock growled, defending himself._

 _"_ _You know, you seem very different than when you first arrived, Mycroft Holmes," he leaned back, the chair creaking._

 _"_ _What can I say? Torture does that to a person."_

 _"_ _You're snide," the terrorist leader remarked, "and clever. The way you took Ekram's scythe and escaped."_

 _"I work well under pressure. It's something I've always been good at," the detective sniffed._

 _"_ _Is that so," Farooq exhaled deeply, "because, I've heard that your brother Sherlock Holmes is the clever genius, the world famous internet detective." he threw an old newspaper with his photo on the front page on the desk. God, he was wearing the hat too, "I've never known you to possess these traits. You came in the bumbling bureaucrat, and now you hatch these ingenious plans."_

 _"_ _Yes, he's built quite a reputation for himself," he continued his act as Mycroft, "but he has nothing to do with any of this, leave him out."_

 _"_ _Interesting," Bahar circled him, noticing the blood dripping onto his floor, "because if I recall, there were photographs of you and another gentleman sitting at a cafe. In fact, my men showed you these images."_

 _He was talking about a few days ago, when Mycroft met him at the cafe and first presented the case._

 _"_ _Yes, I admit that's my brother," Sherlock growled._

 _"_ _You know, I have a brother too," Farooq sat in front of him, leaning on his desk._

 _"_ _Abbad Bahar," the detective nodded, "I know."_

 _"_ _I love my brother, Mr. Mycroft Holmes, I love him to death. I would give anything to protect him. I also think that's something you and I have in common."_

 _"We have_ ** _nothing_** _in common," Sherlock spat._

 _"_ _On the contrary," Farooq chuckled, "I admire your will, Mr. Holmes, but let's quit the act."_

 _"What act?"_

 _"_ _I know who you are, Mycroft," Bahar smiled, "or should I say Sherlock."_

 _The game was up, he needed to think quickly._

 _"_ _Come on," Farooq pressed, "admit it. Your charade has been discovered, your plans foiled. I should kill you for what you've done, deceiving me like that."_

 _"Your not?"_

 _"_ _Like I said, I have a brother who I care about too."_

 _Sherlock sat in silence._

 _"_ _I'm not an unreasonable man, Mr. Holmes," Farooq got up again, circling his chair, "but I don't appreciate your trickery. I'm sure Ekram can convey my message in a more…physical manner."_

 _Not again, not with that animal._

 _Farooq walked behind his desk and pressed an intercom button. He spoke in Arabic and not two seconds later the door opened. Sherlock recognized Ekram's stench as he walked through the doorway, gritting his teeth._

 _"_ _Ready for some more one-on-one time, Mr. Holmes?" he could practically feel that callous grin behind him._

 _"_ _Farooq," Sherlock smiled, "you have no idea who you're dealing with."_

 _"_ _Excuse me? Is that a threat?"_

 _"You say you'd do anything for your brother, correct?"_

 _"_ _You heard me the first time," he stood tall, trying not to show weakness. But, he already had. He made the mistake of telling Sherlock one of his biggest pressure points and now it was time to exploit._

 _"_ _I have a powerful brother," Sherlock chuckled, "one with the entire British government at his fingertips."_

 _"_ _Is that supposed to scare me off?"_

 _"_ _It should, if you were smart," Sherlock shrugged, wincing, "you said you care for your brother, but do you care for him enough to cross mine?"_

 _"_ _What is this?" Farooq scoffed, angrily, "A battle of the brothers?"_

 _"_ _If you want to call it that, except my brother would win. He'd take Abbad down like the rat he is, execute him for the world to see, and relish in the accomplishment of your dead sibling."_

 _"_ _Enough! Ekram, take him away!"_

 _"_ _I'm your only clue to stop him!"_

 _"_ _Wait!" Farooq held up a hand, stopping Ekram from seizing him, "Explain!"_

 _"_ _I know my brother better than anyone else in the world, I even pretended to be him for the better part of a week," Sherlock raised a brow, "you need me."_

 _"_ _How do you know my brother is even in danger?"_

 _"_ _When's the last time you talked to him?"_

 _Farooq wanted not to answer, he could see it through his flicking lips and snarling eyes, but he conceded, "Few days."_

 _"_ _Few days? Probably since before my kidnapping then."_

 _Farooq didn't answer, but that served as confirmation._

 _"_ _You take me, Mycroft takes Abbad. Perfect trade."_

 _"_ _No!" Farooq slammed his fist on the table._

 _"_ _He's probably already been taken. Abducted by men in a black van, never to be seen again."_

 _"_ _Listen to me!" Farooq pounced, grabbing Sherlock by his coat collar and pulling him in so his spit flew in his face, "The only reason you are alive right now is because I say so! I told you I'm a reasonable man, Sherlock Holmes, but my patience is running out!"_

 _"_ _Give me a few hours," Sherlock bargained, "not with Ekram, not trapped in a room, locked in a chair, or hanging by a hook."_

 _"_ _Fine," Farooq spat, throwing Sherlock back._

 _"_ _I need a first aid kit, food, water, and a cell phone."_

 _"_ _What?" Bahar gawked, "You expect me to just hand this all to you? To meet your demands willingly?"_

 _"If you want to see your brother again, then yes."_

 _"Okay," the terrorist leader grit his teeth, agreeing after a few moments, "just know that if you betray me, the price is your head."_

 _Sherlock nodded once._

 _"_ _Go," Farooq nodded at Ekram, "get him what he wants."_

 _Ekram, begrudgingly, agreed. He moved forward and motioned for Sherlock to exit the room, not touching him._

 _Now, he needed to find a way to get his brother to go after Abbad Bahar._

 **Chapter 7 coming soon!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you for the new reviews, it really encourages me to continue writing! Keep them coming! Anyway, enjoy Chapter 7! Leave me a fav/follow/review!**

 _"_ Here we are." Mycroft's chauffeur opened the door and John stepped out, shielding his eyes from the sun. Mycroft emerged behind him, his cane at his side as his driver parked up the street.

"The photograph, please, Dr. Watson," Mycroft held out a waiting hand and John fished the sketch from his pocket. He gave it to the older Holmes who studied it for a few seconds, "We're at the correct location."

John looked at Sherlock's sketch for a minute or two before affirming Mycroft's theory, "Looks about right. There's Windsor Castle," he pointed to the horizon and back to the sketch.

"We're at the wrong angle," Mycroft pursed his lips, "we must find where Sherlock exactly drew this. It'll show us where his location was."

"Okay, do we go around the city all day and try to examine the photograph to the horizon?"

"No," Mycroft scoffed, "we head to the post office Sherlock delivered this from. He couldn't have gone far from there."

"Right, right," John wanted to smack his forehead for being so stupid, "let's go."

The chauffeur took them to the outskirts of town, and parked right in front of a rather shabby looking post office. The sign was teetering off the hinges, dangerously close to falling off. Through the glass, Watson could see the old man Mycroft showed him in the photo, only aged and dirtier. John walked into the establishment, Mycroft waiting in the car.

"Hello," Watson smiled quickly, "are you the manager?"

"Do ya see anyone else 'round here?" the man's thick slang accent threw John off, but he recovered.

"I was wondering if you remembered the man who sent this," John placed the sketch on the table, and pushed it over for the man to see, "he mailed it just a few days ago."

"Ya think I 'member every bloke that come in here? Bug off, ya wanker!"

"Sir, please," Watson ground his teeth, "It's impertinent you remember."

"Fancy English," the clerk released a guttural laugh, "but it don't do ya no good, here."

John felt something within him snap. All of the anger, frustration, confusion, and lack of knowing sent him over the edge as he leaned over the counter, grabbed the grimy clerk by his stained collar and pulled him close.

"Listen!" Watson hissed, "My best friend is in danger, and if he dies because your thick, alcoholic brain couldn't see past your big ego, then I will hold you personally accountable! Now, look at the paper and tell me who sent it!"

"All right, all right!" the man begged, holding his shaking hands up in the air as John released him and shoved the paper under his nose again.

"Fine, ya, I think I remember," the clerk fixed his wrinkled collar, "this bloke came in, dark curly hair. Bleeding, long coat."

"Yes, that's him!" John laughed with relief, "When did he come in?"

"Yesterday mornin. Some van was chasin' him down. Asked for a phone, didn't have one. Asked for a fax, my sister's got it. Wrote that down quickly, and ran off."

"Wait, you said a van was coming after him?"

"Looked like it. They took him down over there," he pointed farther off by the edge of the road.

"What direction did they come in?"

"Down there, I think," the clerk pointed south.

"Did you see or recognize anybody in there?"

"No," he huffed, "wouldn't tell you if I did either."

John sighed, "Thank you, sir, you've been a big help."

Watson left a few pounds on the counter and ran out to Mycroft.

"I see you got a little rough in there," Mycroft wiped the edges of his coat.

"He was being a bit uncooperative."

"John Watson, the soldier, the doctor, the sidekick, and now the fighter…interesting."

Watson got into the car, relaying the information the clerk begrudgingly told John, "A van was supposedly coming after him down there," John pointed down the road, "we've got to go there."

"Don't be so rash, Dr. Watson," Mycroft tutted, "two men and a driver can hardly trespass on terrorist grounds."

"Okay, so call in the troops, antiterrorism," John patted his legs impatiently, "do something!"

"I'll phone Lestrade," he whipped out his mobile and dialed, "and make a few other calls."

Watson had never seen Mycroft so compliant, had never seen him so ready to act. Maybe it was because his brother was taken, maybe it was to stop these terrorists, but these last few days being in close proximity with him definitely taught John a lot about the elder Holmes.

Mycroft put the call on speakerphone for both John and him to communicate.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft began, "I'm confident we've pinpointed Sherlock's location."

"Where?"

"Windsor."

"Okay, I'll send men down there, but I'm on my way. Don't try anything until reinforcements get there"

"Will do, Lestrade, thank you," John said as Mycroft hung up.

"Now, for more effective measures," Mycroft didn't look up from his screen as he dialed another number.

"Who are you calling?" John inquired, but Mycroft didn't answer him.

"Mycroft Holmes," he introduced himself, "Windsor."

He hung up.

"That's it?"

Holmes nodded.

"Now, we wait."

An hour later, Lestrade called and said he was approaching. He parked his squad car near Mycroft's Mercedes and met up with them.

"Anything new?" the detective inspector asked.

"Not yet," Mycroft shook his head, "but Sherlock is being kept somewhere along this road."

"How'd you figure it out?"

"Sherlock sent us a message," John gave the mailed sketch to Lestrade who eyed it carefully.

"Vatican Cameos?"

"It's sort of code," Watson shrugged, "an alert for danger."

"And this horizon is supposed to be Windsor?"

"I stake my reputation on it," Mycroft held his head up high.

John tapped his foot against the gravel impatiently, "Are your men almost here?"

"Nearly," Greg answered.

"Almost," Mycroft followed up.

"You have reinforcements coming too?" DI Lestrade asked Holmes.

"You have your friends, I have mine."

"Can't we just go down the road and check it out?" Watson tried to peer over the hill, but couldn't make out anything.

"It's too dangerous," Lestrade sighed, "if they're keeping Sherlock in there and know we're snooping, he could face serious consequences."

"We're talking about the rabbit hole of a known terrorist organization, Dr. Watson," Mycroft raised a brow, "you know we can't just go waltzing in, this requires care and efficiency. Our intrusion could threaten national security."

"And that's all, isn't it," John retorted bitterly, "only national security? Nothing else?"

"Well, I don't think there is anything more important than our nation's well being, don't you agree? Think carefully before you answer."

"Your brother, perhaps!" John shouted, "He's not even my sibling, yet I've been more family to him than you have!"

"Calm down, John," Lestrade soothed, "maybe another time."

"When's a better time than this? This whole mess started because of Mycroft and now we have to tiptoe around him in case he gets sensitive about his brother's kidnapping, in case he sheds just a sliver of emotion for his abducted, possible dead, family. Mycroft doesn't feel for Sherlock, just for Sherlock's abilities. If he had it his way, Sherlock would be locked up in his office, just used to solve cases and nothing more."

"Watson-" Lestrade tried to intervene.

"No," Mycroft held up a hand, "Dr. Watson, I respect your opinion, however wrong it may be. I know in my heart where my feelings truly lie, and I don't expect someone so mundane to understand our complex relationship. Now, if you'd excuse me," he went walking off, just a few yards away by himself.

"You've got to keep it together, John," Lestrade gripped his shoulder, "we can't fall apart, not now."

John looked at Mycroft bitterly, "Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm just antsy, that's all."

Greg patted his arm, as squad cars and black vans started to drive down the hill. It was the reinforcements, the ones from Scotland Yard!

"They're here," Lestrade's eyes brightened at his support team. The cars came to a stop as people emerged, immediately getting to work. The two squad cars pulled up the rear and parked, facing each other, as they formed a road block. Nobody could get in our out. Donovan emerged from the passenger seat of a black van, wearing a dark bullet proof vest.

"Sergeant Donovan," Lestrade smiled, relieved, "glad you're here."

"Well, the Freak is one of us, right?" she cracked a smile, "we'll get him back safe and sound."

"What's the plan?" John asked, eagerly.

"We've got police roadblocks formed on both ends of the street. I sent a few cars down south, looping around the town as not to be noticed, that way if they try to escape we'll get them. I've also got C019 with me, and they'll be ready to head in as soon as-"

The distant whirring of rotating helicopter blades got louder and louder, almost deafening. Wind started to pick up speed around them as they all held onto their ears and looked up. A helicopter was descending a few hundred yards away, the grass pressed to the soil by the force of the wind.

"IS THAT YOURS?" John yelled above the noise.

"NO," Lestrade replied, trying to eye the label along the side to identify the craft.

"It's mine!" Mycroft stepped forward, eyes sparkling, "Like I said, I have powerful friends!"

The helicopter touched ground and out jumped four men, heavily armed, top of the line military gear, matching jumpsuits, earpieces, machine guns, revolvers, pistols, batons, knives, machetes, the whole works. John gawked, eyes wide as this elite team of four approached Mycroft and each of them saluted in sync.

"Mr. Holmes," one of them said in a husky voice, "ready for instructions."

"Thank you, gentlemen, for arriving so quickly. Where are the others?"

"Others?" Lestrade choked.

"On route, sir," the soldier spoke again, "another helicopter has landed farther down the road, they met with Scotland Yard. Two ground vehicles should be here anytime, but the tank could take longer."

" _Tank?"_ John's jaw dropped.

"Yes, maybe the tank was a bit excessive on my account," Mycroft rubbed his chin, "call it off."

"Right away, sir," the soldier turned away, speaking into his earpiece.

Mycroft walked towards an astonished John and Lestrade.

"Close your mouths, both of you," Holmes rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft," Watson gulped, "I didn't realize you sent for the entire British army!"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, John. It's just a few precautionary measures."

"If these are just precautionary measures, I wonder what else he's got in store," Greg mumbled to John.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft exhaled tightly, "if you'd like to lead this investigation any time."

"Y-yes, of course," Lestrade got his bearings and he walked to the center of the field, surrounded by Scotland Yard and military reinforcements, "All right, listen up! We've got a civilian trapped inside a known terrorist organization's base of operations! We believe he is being held in a building along this road, so I need everyone on their game today! Our job is to make sure we extract the civilian safely, and take down the enemy with minimal casualties! Let's move in!"

Mycroft stayed behind, watching the troops go. The team he called in led the charge, them four first rounding the bluff to make sure it was safe, then waving in Lestrade, Donovan, and Scotland Yard men. John brought up the rear, not exactly an officer, but he wouldn't miss this. They would meet the remaining teams on the other side of the road and continue from there to help Sherlock escape.

If he was alive.

Mycroft just watched them disappear over the crest, as he rested against his black Mercedes. The wind was blowing quite harshly and the edges of his suit jacket billowed in the wind. He thought about Sherlock, how is younger brother had been missing for the last few days, how John's accusations that it was his fault Sherlock was taken were true, how he knew he was responsible for this mess, how he might've jeopardized the entire mission by sending in his family to solve this case, how Sherlock Holmes might die because of it.

His knuckles tightened around his case, fingers turning white.

 _A heavy boot kicked his chair and Sherlock jolted awake. He didn't realize his eyes even closed. The combination of blood loss and lack of nutrients for his ailing body put him on the verge of unconsciousness. He knew he would collapse eventually, but not yet, not while the Hamas organization was still at large, not until he took out Farooq and Abbad Bahar. He promised Farooq he'd prevent Mycroft from hurting his brother, but Mycroft wasn't even close to knowing his whereabouts, that's why he put Sherlock on the case. Now, he had to complete it, he had to locate their whereabouts and figure out their plans before they executed it and delivered a nasty terrorist blow to central London._

 _No pressure._

 _"_ _Keep working," Ekram barked, delighting in any way he could order Sherlock. He got small satisfaction from waking his tired body up every few minutes._

 _Sherlock was typing on a laptop that must've been ten years old. It was monsterous, bulky, and had multiple thick wires pumping battery life into the worn machine. Every time he typed a key, the machine would cough and spatter, trying to compute the command with reluctance. He asked for a mobile phone, but to not risk Sherlock making any calls, they offered this beat up excuse of a laptop to do the job._

 _Due to its outdated programming, Sherlock wouldn't be able to text or contact authorities or his friends in any way. It could only search the internet every fifteen minutes after the hard drive rebooted four times or play computerized chess._

 _"_ _I can't work with this," he spat._

 _"_ _Try," Ekram's knuckled tightened around his chair. Thankfully, he was given a bottle of water and a small packet of saltine crackers, "the only reason you are alive is because Farooq needs you to find Abbad before your scoundrel brother does!"_

 _"_ _Don't talk about my brother that way," Sherlock growled._

 _"_ _Like you have any right to give demands," Ekram retorted, "one bad word from me and Farooq will have your head!"_

 _Sherlock sighed, pressing some fingers against his shoulder warily. He was given bandages but they were soaked through. A needle and stitches would've been an ideal solution, but any weapon-even a needle-was forbidden._

 _"_ _What have you got?" Ekram peered over his shoulder._

 _Sherlock tilted the computer screen away from him, "You approach me again, and Abbad is dead."_

 _Ekram grumbled as he pulled away, still less than a foot away from Sherlock._

 _There was no way he could contact Mycroft and fabricate a story on Abbad Bahar with this prehistoric machine at his fingertips._

 _A sharp pain flared in his upper shoulder, and he clenched his teeth. Sherlock doubled over, clutching his chest as he fell out of his chair gasping._

 _What was happening?_

 _His breaths were harsh and labored, his eyes wide and slightly…scared. Fear? No, it couldn't be, no…_

 _"_ _What?" Ekram's face hovered above him, "What is it? Get up!"_

 _Sherlock saw black dots form across his gaze, the edges of his vision turning fuzzy. He felt lightheaded and his limbs heavier than usual as a cold, creeping calmness spread over his body._

 _"_ _Hey!" Ekram crouched down by his head and patted his cheeks harshly. The impact of the slaps made his skin sting, but it barely registered, "Enough of this!"_

 _Sherlock couldn't move, his hands resting against his chest as his body heaved for lungfuls of much-needed oxygen._

 _Ekram groaned and ran to the door. He opened it, stuck his head outside, and started shouting in Arabic. A few seconds later two more men came rushing in, crowding the half-conscious detective, their voices sounded distant and distorted._

 _Heavy hands gripped his underarms and his legs as he felt the ground disconnect from his spine; he was lifted from the floor by the men and rushed outside, taken to the main living room where a torn, moldy couch became his bed._

 _"_ _What's happened?" Farooq came barging in, voice tinged with irritation._

 _"_ _I don't know," Ekram growled, "he just collapsed!"_

 _"You idiot!" he heard a heavy slap from Farooq to Ekram, "You hurt him, and now he's lost too much blood!"_

 _"He was fine just a second ago-"_

 _"_ _I don't want to hear it!" Farooq barked, "Get me a medical kit!"_

 _"_ _You want to keep him alive?"_

 _"_ _Of course! He knows where my brother is!"_

 _Heavy boots clomped in the distance and someone returned with a first aid kit._

 _"_ _Hold him down," Farooq's voice was dripping with impatience and anger. He wanted to kill Sherlock then and there, let the detective die for his deceit, but he couldn't risk his sibling._

 _"_ _Get me a needle and thread."_

 _"_ _Anesthetic?"_

 _"No," Farooq smiled evilly, "let him feel it."_

 _"_ _He's half conscious, sir."_

 _"Then he hasn't fallen unconscious yet. More fun for me, a little reward for my troubles."_

 _Through his hazy vision, Sherlock could see the glint of metal against the light from a thin needle._

 _Ekram was holding his arms, another man had his legs, Farooq was grinning in the corner as the other man tore off Sherlock's soggy coat roughly._

 _"_ _This is going to hurt," Farooq's smile was wide and maniacal as he approached Sherlock, needle in hand._

 **Chapter 8 coming soon!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Here's the second to last chapter, hope you enjoy! I'm posting two chapters today! A little treat! Leave me a fav/follow/review!**

John was crouched just few hundred yards away from a lone house hidden behind old shrubs and gnarled trees. There was a cruel vibe rolling off the dilapidated building, the white van that the postman described was parked half behind a few brown bushes.

Worry was eating at his heart, his hands shaking. He looked down at his shivering fingers in confusion. Watson had endured war and injury, but the thought of losing Sherlock again was too much to bear. The man was his best friend, he couldn't imagine a life without Sherlock Holmes. The detective brought him back to his feet when his mind convinced him he was an injured, useless, retired army doctor.

He saw the leader of Mycroft's elite soldier unit wave a few commands to his team and then pointed to fingers in the direction of the house. He looked at the Scotland Yard forces and signaled a few other commands and they nodded.

The soldiers would go in first, Scotland Yard would create a perimeter and the remaining men would enter. John was to stay behind the perimeter, not authorized to enter the building. He grumbled at that but conceded. There were limits after all.

The soldiers stealthily climbed the porch, the only sound was the rustling leaves of the trees. Scotland Yard men were standing behind trunks and bushes, guns at the ready as the soldiers picked the rusty lock and entered one by one, shadows in the light.

And of course, of all moments, his mobile phone buzzed.

Watson cringed. It seemed like the vibrations were like an air horn announcing his location to the terrorists.

If anyone, he imagined Sherlock Holmes would be the one to call him in the most inconvenient of hours, but the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.

"Mycroft!" John whisper-yelled into the mobile, "Why are you bloody calling me now?"

"I wanted to see how the raid was coming along?"

"There won't be a raid if you keep calling me! Maybe the terrorists can track my signal!"

"That means Sherlock hasn't been extracted from the building yet?"

"No, not yet."

There was no response on the other end, it was almost as if Mycroft Holmes, for once in his life, had run out of things to say. That had to mean Sherlock's brother was worried for him, actually expressed some form of human emotion for another individual other than himself.

"It-uh, it's going to be all right, Mycroft," John cupped the edge of the mobile to his ear, "we're going to get him out."

Still silence, but he could tell Mycroft was listening. Despite how detached he might portray to be from his emotions, Mycroft was still, relatively, human and needed comfort at times too.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," he breathed a response back into the mobile, "keep me updated."

"Oh, yeah," he rolled his eyes as he ended the call, "top of my list."

It had been a few minutes since the soldiers entered the abandoned house, and John was becoming impatient.

"What's going on?" he asked the nearest guard, "What's taking so long?"

The guard pressed the intercom button on his earpiece, "Hey, what's the hold up-"

Two gunshots rang through the clearing.

John felt his heart stop with fear, eyes widen.

"Sherlock," he whispered to himself.

Lestrade's voice rang through the air, "Move it, move it! Everybody inside! "

The perimeter collapsed, officers emerging from their hiding places, flooding the porch and running into the building guns blazing.

 ** _"_** ** _What's going on up there?"_**

He looked at his mobile, a text from Mycroft.

His army senses kicked in, his mind switching to autopilot, as Watson produced his own handgun from his belt, and approached the front door. He mounted the stops of the porch, but stopped. More gunshots blasted through the air, as shouts accompanied them. The entire British army just went sprinting through that front door, he needed an alternative. John rounded the building, hiding behind the chipping rafters as his senses tingled, his heart pumping into overdrive.

 ** _"_** ** _Details? Now!"_**

He didn't have time for Mycroft! John threw his phone far off in the grass, spotting a side door a few feet away. Watson approached and kicked it open, gun ready as his breaths came out fervently. His only mission was to find Sherlock and get out of there as fast as possible. John ducked when plaster dust rained from the ceiling, gunshots, screams, and heavy thuds muffled upstairs. He moved forward, hiding behind objects, checking his perimeter. He hoped to everything Sherlock was still alive in here somewhere…

"Sherlock!" he whispered, trying to desperately locate his friend.

Nothing, no answer.

 _Damn, not good._

"Sherlo-"

The smallest of groans echoed meekly through the room.

John perked up, turning his head frantically from side to side.

"Sherlock? Is that you?"

"John…?"

That was him, that was his voice. His shocked expression morphed into one of glee as Watson's heart swelled with relief. He was alive, he was here.

The army doctor plowed into the next room, still calling Sherlock's name as he tried to pinpoint the source of the voice.

He finally tracked it down to a locked supply closet hidden under the stairs. It looked like the door from the Harry Potter series and a thick, chained padlock wrapped around the nob like a boa constrictor.

"John!" he heard Sherlock's voice, louder now, and definitely coming from behind that door.

"Sherlock!" he knocked against it, ducking as more plaster sprayed from above, "Wait there, I'm gonna get you out!"

He searched the surrounding room, these terrorists had to unlock the door sometime to feed, torture, or interrogate Sherlock. It needed to be nearby, yet somewhere discreet…aha! It was hidden in a dead flower's pot, sloppily concealed under the bone dry soil. He wiped it against his shirt and approached the door.

"I'm gonna open the door, Sherlock!" he looked from side to side, making sure nobody was watching, "stay back!"  
Watson inserted the silver key into the lock, jiggling it in place before it finally turned and the door opened with effort. He had to push against it with his shoulder and back until light finally seeped through. John's eyes adjusted and he looked inside.

"Oh, God, Sherlock…"

There he was, his best friend. The room was completely pitch black, the only light coming through was when John finally opened the rusted door. Sherlock was laying in a dirty, chipped, ceramic white bathtub. His wrists and ankles were tied with thick, brown rope and rubbing against bleeding skin. His over 6 foot frame was hunkered down and crammed into the bathtub. He was wearing his coat, but one shoulder was bandaged tightly with stained, old wraps. Sherlock probably contracted all types of infection inside that tub alone, but maggots, termites, spiders, moths, and other insects crowded the corners of the small room. His figure was gaunt and pale, like he was one day away from becoming a skeleton. His hair was damp with a cold sweat, and blue eyes hazy and squinting against the sudden light pouring into the room.

Watson ran forward, dropping his gun at the door.

"What have they done to you?" he looked at Sherlock's tied, bleeding wrists with horrified expressions.

"I'm all right, John," Sherlock winced, "just untie me, please."

John pulled out his knife from his belt, carefully rubbing the serrated edge against the rope until the fibers started breaking. Eventually, after the first few seconds of cutting, the rope fell apart and landed at the bottom of the molded tub. He moved down to the ankles and did the same with those bonds.

"Here," John pulled his small LED flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on, "this'll help."

Sherlock rubbed his calloused, tender wrists with shaking, pale fingers.

"Let's get up," John paced, looking up instinctively as something heavy thudded from above, "we've got to move, get out of here as quick as we can."

"John," Sherlock gripped the edges of the tub with white knuckles and shivering shoulders, "I-I can't move my legs."

Of course! Sherlock's long, lanky form had been hunkered down in this position for some time. His muscles must be aching, unable to unwind, and his upper arm strength was weak to pull himself up. In fact, everything about Sherlock seemed weak and fetal. John held Sherlock's hand as he pulled him up, grabbing him by the shoulder when he wavered as he stood up freely for the first time in days.

"That's it, there we go," John encouraged slowly, knowing better than to rush this delicate process but his mind was screaming at him to run away as fast as possible.

"Lestrade," Sherlock spoke quietly, in a deep voice, "is he here?"

"Upstairs."

Two more gunshots sounded through the building.

"We've got to get out of here," John placed Sherlock's arm around his shoulder as the detective turned his head side to side, "do you know a way out?"

"No," Sherlock scanned, "I was locked in a basement most of the time, and blindfolded or unconscious when they took me out. Let's go back the way you entered."

Watson winced at the words, trying not to conjure the image of his injured, interrogated friend being mistreated by these terrorists. He heeded Sherlock's instructions and tried backtracking his route, recognizing some of the furniture as he approached the door.

One right, two lefts, around the chair…

"John, watch out!"

Watson turned his head, but wasn't fast enough, as a wooden plank smacked him in the back of the head and he went tumbling to the floor. Stars erupted before his eyes and his vision was blotchy. He groaned, holding the back of his head as his arms moved sluggishly, a great weight slowly dripping away from his shoulders. He soon realized that was Sherlock, and without John's help he went crumbling to the floor. The detective tried to climb to his feet, legs shaking, but the attacker was spitting, bleeding, and angry.

"You!" Sherlock growled, eyes narrowed in rage.

"You will not evade me so easily, Sherlock Holmes!"

The attacker left at Holmes, tackling him to the ground. John shook his head, regaining his bearings. Sherlock was pinned down by the attacker, his hands frantically trying to pry the ones from his throat.

Watson blundered over and grabbed the attacker by his waist, throwing him off Sherlock who coughed and gasped for air. The man looked crazed, biting and scratching and yelling like an animal as John tussled with him, rolling on the floor. He was strong, a seasoned fighter, even with a heavy bleed above his brow. The blood was dripping on John as the attacker was on top now, ready to clamp his hands down on his throat and choke the life out of him.

 _"_ _Get off of him!"_

The wooden plank that hit John seconds ago was now used against the attacker as Sherlock brought it against his skull and he fell away.

"Get up, John!"

Watson coughed, holding his throat, as he stumbled to his feet and plowed out of the room, Sherlock falling against walls and furniture.

"Almost there, Sherlock!" Watson panted, trying to catch up to his friend, "Just a bit longer!"

"Wait, John! The laptop!"

"What?"

"The laptop!" he pointed a finger to the table beside him and saw an ancient looking laptop computer resting against the table, some plaster dust sprinkled on top of it. Watson didn't ask questions, he just grabbed it, tucked it under his arm, and sprinted out towards the light.

Mycroft tapped his foot against the gravel, that slight movement the only indication of his impatient irritation. He had checked his mobile four times in the last minute, but still no word from John or Lestrade. He heard gunshots from far off, the muffled pops indicating a dangerous arms game between both parties.

He was counting on Watson to get his brother out alive, even if it meant his own. He knew the risks, he knew how important Sherlock was to the British government…and to him. There were secrets Sherlock knew, secrets that people killed for, but his brother was a locked safe. Especially with the Jim Moriarty case solved, Sherlock was more vital than ever to take on government level cases. Cases like the one he was assigned two days ago by his older brother. Cases that got him kidnapped and tortured. Cases that meant national security entrusted in one man. Cases that he knew Sherlock loved and would do all over again, despite the pain.

 **Chapter 9 out now!**


	9. Chapter 9

**LAST CHAPTER! Thank you to my loyal followers, hope you guys enjoyed! Please check out my other two "Sherlock" stories, "The Computer Criminal" and the "Devil's Assasin"! Enjoy! Leave me a review!**

"We're out!" John panted, looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. Their attacker wasn't in pursuit, but Watson was sprinting over the gravel like a track star.

His friend was stumbling in front of him, teetering to the left, as his pale hand held his shoulder wound tightly, his skin the same color as his knuckles. Sherlock looked behind him, at the building, and his surrounding area, as the gunshot sounds became less frequent.

Watson laughed in relief, his heart finally swelling with the absence of worry, but not all of it was completely eradicated.

"Sherlock," John jogged to his side, grabbing him by the arm, "come on, let me take a look."

"No," Holmes shook his head and spoke in a raspy voice, "I-I'm fine, Lestrade and his men might need your expertise."

As he said it, Sherlock's leg buckled underneath him and he sank to the floor, shaking his head as if to clear away his lightheadedness.

"Holmes!" John eyes widened as he dropped with him, "What happened? Can you walk?"

He didn't answer, just looking straight ahead with wide, dazed eyes, trying to make sure everything was working. He recognized John, he remembered clearly the events of the last few days. His central nervous system was working surprisingly well for what he had endured, but now wasn't the time to think over that…

He seemed to have woken up, John's distorted voice rushing to him in normal pitch and speed.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? What's going on?"

"N-nothing, John," he cleared his throat, "help me stand, I must find Mycroft."

"No, no, you're staying down until medical attention arrives."

"John, it's imperative I find Mycroft-"

"No!" he didn't mean for the words to come out so harsh, but it was firm and full of emotion. The last few days had been a whirlwind of worry, panic, anger, and fear and now that Sherlock was back with him, he wasn't going to let him out of his sight, "you are not moving, okay? Not on my watch, I will not lose you again."

Holmes took a deep, shaky breath, looking up at John with his heavy blue stare. He looked right into Watson's eyes and saw no room for negotiation.

"Okay," he agreed stubbornly. John exhaled in relief, and Sherlock was secretly thankful for his friend's firmness. He didn't think he could continue much longer this way, but all he dreamed for was a nice cup of tea and some time with his violin.

"Mycroft is just over the bend," Watson spoke in a soft voice, helping Sherlock slide against a nearby tree trunk. They were far away from the house, but he couldn't help but notice the slight surprise in the detective's eyes at the mention of his brother.

"Mycroft? Here? Now?"

"Yeah," John smiled slightly, "He's here, surprisingly."

"He must've known I made progress on the case, he-"

"No, Sherlock," he shook his head, "he won't admit it, but he's here for you. He was worried and wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Impossible," his friend grumbled, but Sherlock's eyes were having trouble staying open. His chin was sinking towards his chest, and that made John's heart flutter,

"Hey, hey," he shook his shoulder, "you've got to stay awake, please, Sherlock. Come on, paramedics are not far, just stay awake."

"I'm awake, John, I'm awake," his voice was barely a whisper and his speech was slurred. Not good, not good. He couldn't call anyone, he threw his phone into the bushes before he went into the house to avoid more texts from Mycroft. Watson regretted doing that, now he couldn't signal the paramedics.

"Okay, okay, Sherlock, listen to me. I'll be right back. Do NOT move, all right? If you move you die, do not move," John was slowly walking backwards, "I'll be right back, I'm just going down to get some help. Stay there."

He turned around and went sprinting across the gravel to where the vehicles were parked. Low and behold, Mycroft was still there, foot tapping and leaning against his Mercedes as he looked at his phone.

"Mycroft!" John shouted as he ran down.

The older Holmes turned his head, "John? What's going on? Where's Sherlock?"

"He's here, come on, I need your help!"

" _My_ help?"

"Yes, you! Hurry!"

Mycroft, for once, didn't argue and twisted off the top of his cane. In his hands materialized a long, thin sword concealed within the wood. He threw the shell of the cane into the back seat through the open window. He followed John up the hill, shedding his coat and just clad in his white button down shirt. He kept surprisingly good pace for being in preppy Oxfords and nice trousers, but Sherlock always cracked jokes of Mycroft's treadmill exercise regime.

"Where are we going, John?" he called after the army doctor.

"Up here!"

Mycroft puffed out an irritated breath, but conceded. He lost sight of John behind the bushes, and quickly turned in his direction.

"What in God's name are we doing rambling out in the woods, John?" he asked harshly, but the former soldier was just staring at a tree trunk and a patch of leaves, "What is this?"

"He-he was here…where'd he go?"

"Who? Sherlock?"

John nodded grimly, "This is bad, very bad. He's going to bleed out, we need to find him!"

"Well, where could he have gone? You said he was here!"

"He was! I told him not to move!"

"John, you're a doctor and you know my brother, what makes you think he'd listen?"

"Okay, just fan out and find him!"

"No, we don't have time! We have to think logically about this! Sherlock is injured, his condition is compromised-"

"But he's not stupid enough to go blundering into the woods!"

"Look," Mycroft bent down, "boot marks."

"Sherlock wasn't wearing boots, he was wearing nice shoes. Flat sole."

"He was taken."

"Again?!"

"Buck up, John," Mycroft sniffed, "let's follow the tracks, see where it leads. Take out your weapon."

John pulled his gun from the back of his waistband and followed Mycroft into the throng of the woods. He had toured in Afghanistan and yet following the older Holmes into possible danger was the most confident he ever felt about anything. There was something about Mycroft, some aura of authority that made you want to listen to him, however irritating he might be.

"There," Watson caught sight of some blood dripping from a leaf.

"Good eye," Mycroft commented, steering in that direction, "do you hear that?"

"No, what?"

"Sounds of struggle. Someone's fighting."

"It can't be Sherlock, he's barely conscious."

"Don't underestimate my brother."

"Never have."

A distant shout jolted them both back to the scenario at hand. Mycroft suddenly went bolting into the trees, John following close behind. They broke through the shrubs and saw the same attacker from inside the house, dragging Sherlock by his shoulder across the dirt. Sherlock was yelling, twisting, turning, and clawing to escape but his face was screwed up in pain and blood was dripping to the floor. The man must be pressing against an injury,

"Stop!" John held his gun and pointed it at Sherlock's attacker, "Stop right there! Let him go!"

The man looked up with crazed eyes, blood dripping from his forehead, as his hands were clamped to Sherlock like vices. He was laughing maniacally, but thankfully he stopped dragging his friend across the floor.

"Release him," Mycroft's voice was firm and left no room for argument.

"He deserves to die!" the man screamed.

Sherlock growled, "Shoot him!"

"If you don't release him now, I will personally see to your demise," Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but a gunshot rang through the air. John looked down at his unfired gun then at Mycroft who was staring at him expectantly. It wasn't him, he didn't fire a shot.

The terrorist had a hole in his chest, and he looked down at it with wide eyes. He pressed a hand to the wound and gasped before dropping to his knees. Despite it all, his hand was still clamped against Sherlock's shoulder tightly. The man fell to the floor and standing behind him was one Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, holding a smoking gun.

"Hope I'm not too late," he smirked.

"Right on time," John huffed with relief as he went sprinting forward. Sherlock was lying in the dirt, groaning.

"How is he? What's happened?" Lestrade knelt next to John as Watson tried to shed the coat. He didn't know where Sherlock's injury was until the attacker was squeezing blood from his shoulder.

"Help me get the coat off," the doctor ordered and Lestrade helped peel back the soggy fabric to reveal the skin underneath.

"Oh, God," DI Lestrade paled, stumbling backwards.

John pursed his lips, a fresh feeling of worry seizing his heart, "Lestrade, phone the ambulance."

"I did, they're on their way-"

"Tell them to get here faster!"

Watson could feel a presence over his shoulder, and knew it was Mycroft. It was a strange feeling, but it was weirdly acceptable. An older brother should always watch over his younger….

"He's losing a lot of blood, John," Greg's voice was grim.

"I know!" he snapped, "Hand me your belt."

Lestrade didn't ask questions, just complied.

Watson took the leather belt and tried to create a tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

"What did they do to him?" Greg cleared his throat, "stick a harpoon in his shoulder?"

"I don't care what they did," Watson clenched his jaw, "so long as they answer for it."

"They will," Lestrade nodded, "we got them, we got them good."

"Good," John didn't want to think about that now, he would concern himself with their suitable punishment after he knew Sherlock would be okay, "Sherlock, you all right?"

No answer.

"Sherlock?" he knitted his brows, and shook the detective's shoulders, "Sherlock!"

"What's happening?"

"He's unresponsive," John panicked and pressed and ear against his chest, "labored breathing. I think he's going into cardiac arrest."

"What?!" Lestrade's jaw dropped.

"Emergency vehicles are two minutes out," Mycroft informed. They could already hear the sirens.

"That's too bloody late!" John growled, pressing his hands against Sherlock's chest in compressions.

"Lestrade, go signal them," Mycroft ordered, anger in his voice.

The Detective Inspector went running off back to the main road.

"John, what's his status?" the older Holmes asked.

"Not good, Mycroft, what do you think?"

"Here! Over here!" they could hear Lestrade's distant voice waving down the ambulances.

"Stay with me, Sherlock, stay with me," John kept performing compressions, noticing Sherlock's gaunt features through his paper thin pale skin.

"Sir, we're going to need you to step aside!"  
A paramedic in a bright yellow jacket spoke in his ear. Watson ignored them, not wanting to separate from Sherlock again.

"Sir, step aside or we'll be forced to remove you!"

"He's a doctor for God's sakes!" Mycroft growled, "John, instruct them!"

The tables turned, "someone take over compressions," Watson ordered, "ventilate!"

The paramedics moved as a perfect unit, their expert training kicking in as they surrounded Sherlock. John was pushed to the back, behind fluorescent yellow jackets who flocked his best friend.

"Stay with me, Sherlock!"

XXXXXX

 _"_ _Stay with me, Sherlock!"_

 _"_ _BP dropping."_

 _"_ _Push one of epipen, keep the crash cart on standby."_

 _"It's going to be okay, Sherlock, come on, just a bit longer."_

Sherlock groaned, his hand coming up to his eyes and rubbing away the fogginess from the last few days. He opened his blue pupils to see a familiar surrounding: his bedroom. The periodic table of elements on the green wall was unmistakable.

"John?" he called. What happened? How'd he get here?

No response to his remark, but he heard clamoring from the kitchen. The sound of pots and pans tapping against each other. The sound of everyday house life.

He looked down to see he was tucked into bed, a black long sleeve shirt was fitted onto his lanky form. When did he change? Where was his coat? He winced when his arm pulled against the IV needle stuck into his wrist. His pale eyes looked up to the IV bag hanging on a metal rod next to his bed. There were flowers and envelopes on his dresser, and he narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The room was dark, a small lamplight bright enough to only let him see as far as his chest. His legs moved stiffly under the covers. Sherlock reached up and pressed against his right shoulder. Heavy bandages met his touch, under his black shirt. There was minimal pain, no doubt with the help of heavy painkillers. A cup of cold tea was waiting on his nightstand, probably the work of Mrs. Hudson, and his coat hung on the back of his door. It was clean, fresh, almost seemed new. Sherlock smiled.

"John," he called again. This time the pots and pans stopped and he heard footsteps against the creaking wood.

"Sherlock?" there was a small knock at the door, then John poked his head through. The minute he saw his flatmate sitting up in bed, he burst in happily, a wide smile on his face, "Finally, you're awake. It's been days."

"Days?"

"Four days to be exact."

"I couldn't have slept that long."

"First two were in a medically induced coma, combine the painkillers and your exhaustion and that made for a perfect tranquilizer."

Sherlock didn't say anything, just furrowed his brows and looked to the floor.

"What can you remember, Sherlock?"

"Last thing I can recall was being dragged into the woods by Ekram," he snarled as he said the name.

"Ekram?"

"A bloody fiend. He was Farooq Bahar's number two in command, and personal appointee of all my misery," he rolled his eyes, "let's just say I'll have to thank Lestrade for kindly dealing with that situation."

"He was killed, Sherlock, all of them we're killed. Death by firing squad for Farooq and the other men in the building."

"They deserve it," he clenched his jaw, "what's the aftermath? Any attacks?"

"Nothing, thanks to you," John smiled, "I'm glad to see you're feeling better?"

"Me? Of course I am," Sherlock scoffed, "but I'm not finished with the case. There's information I've got to inform Mycroft of, where is he?"

"Mycroft has been with you everyday since you entered the hospital. He personally saw to your transfer yesterday, despite disapproval from the doctors.'

"Mycroft? As in my brother Mycroft? That can't be."

"It's true," John smiled, "he secretly cares."

"Glad to hear it," he huffed, "where's my mobile?"

"In the other room, but I don't want you on it yet. You need a few more days of rest before you try anything again. No cases till then."

"What? Are you my mother now?"

"No, you have Mrs. Hudson for that," John smirked, "she's been replacing that cup of tea every hour. I think it's just to secretly come and sit with you."

"Oh, God," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "as if my mother wasn't bad enough."

"I'll go tell her you're up, she'll be delighted."

"Tell Lestrade to call me. I have to check in."

"All right," John laughed and walked out, closing the door.

"Wait, John."

He opened it a crack.

"Thank you."

"Of course, Sherlock, I'm glad you're okay."

He smiled one last time before closing the door.

Sherlock leaned back in the bed, smiling, head resting against the backboard, "You can come out now, Mycroft."

No sound for a moment, just pure blackness on the surrounding walls of his bedroom. Finally, a shadowy figure moved slightly into the moonlight from the window. The silhouette of Mycroft Holmes was silhouetted against the frame.

"How could you tell?"

"I'm injured, not dead, Mycroft."

No response.

"It was the coat," Sherlock nodded to the apparel hanging on the back of the door, "too new, thank you for replacing it. Only you had the funds for that kind of expenditure and knew just how I liked it."

"Well, I couldn't have you running around in that battered old thing."

"Hmm," Sherlock mused, "Farooq and his men. Not dead, am I correct?"

"You are. Kept in a highly secure, highly classified prison for information."

"You got the laptop from John?"

"Yes, your encryption proved very useful."

"Everything was stored properly? The virus compromised the system, it was supposed to regain any previous deleted history."

"My men we're able to extract some essential information."

"Good."

Silence.

"How did you convince the doctors to release me?" Sherlock smiled amusingly.

"That's irrelevant," Mycroft waved off the topic, "besides, John was an old maid by your side, practically scolding the physicians every day."

"He's a bit of an overdramatic."

"A _bit?_ Sherlock, I had to work with him for several days and I marvel at how you still retain a sliver of your sanity with his incessant worrying and complaints. And don't get me started on Anderson."

Both Holmes brothers groaned, rolling their eyes at the thought of the forensic analyst.

"He's a moron."

"A complete idiot."

"I couldn't agree more."

Silence.

"You know, I had to act as you for a day or two," Sherlock remarked, "I think I captured your character rather effectively."

"Oh, please," Mycroft grunted, "I saw the footage, you act like I'm a blubbering tourist."

"And you fulfilled the detective shoes for a short while," Sherlock nodded, "finally doing a bit of the ' _legwork_.'"

"I don't understand why you entertain yourself with these morons, especially the ones at Scotland Yard."

"They're my friends, Mycroft."

"People like us don't have any friends, Sherlock."

"Then what do we have?"

"Each other."

Sherlock let those words sink in. They sat in silence for a few moments, contemplating the last few days and realizing new things about the other.

"I'd best be going," Mycroft cleared his throat and stood up, "my work is pressing back at the office. I also have a new case I must introduce you to."

"Tomorrow at the cafe, 10:00 o'clock."

"Fine. Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow."

 **THE END**


End file.
